


Homecoming

by lavellanpls



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Alcohol, Dalish Elves, Domesticity, Established Relationship, F/M, Family Reunions, Fluff and Angst, Gen, Humor, Mild Sexual Content, Recreational Drug Use, Trespasser Spoilers (ish)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-11-09
Updated: 2018-02-03
Packaged: 2018-04-28 14:05:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 19
Words: 99,383
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5093510
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lavellanpls/pseuds/lavellanpls
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Clan Lavellan comes to visit Skyhold.<br/>Well, <i>shit.</i><br/>(Alternatively titled, <i>"your worst Thanksgiving but in a castle and somehow worse for it,"</i> now with more elves.)</p><p> -</p><p>Lavellan looked apologetically to Josephine. “Remember when you asked me if there were any sordid details of my past you should know about, and I lied and said there weren’t?”<br/>Josephine gave a slow, cautious nod.<br/>“Right. Because we should talk about that real quick before you inevitably hear some <i>very shocking</i> news from a person or six.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

“They’re _what?_ ”

Josephine repeated her message to a starkly horrified Lavellan, undeterred by her shrill spike in tone. “After your deft maneuvering of the situation in Wycome, Keeper Istimaethorial has insisted on traveling to Skyhold with your clan to personally offer her gratitude.”

Lilith only gaped. “Here? _Now?_ ”

“Well, I suspect it will take at least another day or so before they arrive, but…” At a gentle nudge from Leliana, Josephine finally looked up from her writing board. “Is something wrong, Inquisitor? I…thought you might be happy to see your clan again.”

Quite opposite of happy, Lilith looked _stricken_. “Can’t I just go visit _them?_ ” She realized she’d been wringing her hands, and hastily folded her arms. It wasn’t as subtle as she’d hoped.

“They’ve extended quite a few offers for you to visit them, actually,” Josephine informed. “You’ve just…turned them all down.”

“Which you’d think would give them the hint.”

Cullen cut in, voice touched with concern. “Are you…not on good terms with your family?”

Lilith only waved the notion away, still not-so-surreptitiously fidgeting with her hands. “No, no, it’s not… Well. I guess it sort of _is_ that. Except very, very complicated and very, very stupid. And mostly my fault.”

Her advisors exchanged silent, worried looks. Josephine cleared her throat. “If you would like, we can reschedule for another time. You are a busy woman, after all; I am _sure_ they would understand.”

Lilith honestly thought that over for a moment—maybe if she moved somewhere too far for them to travel? Kept a pet dragon? Rescheduled for after she died?—but caved in the end with a groan of defeat. “No, let them come. Better to get it over with now.”

Lilith loved her clan. Loved her _family,_ truly. But maybe they would have made better friends than clansmen. Or perhaps just friendly neighbors. Distant cordial penpals. _Acquaintances_. But Dalish clans were small, tightknit; a community intimate and isolated and not entirely well-suited for heretical little ruffians with a penchant for rebellion. Lilith was—and let’s be honest, forever would be—the great disappointment of her people.

Humans were put off by the marks on her face—fracturing lines of red tattooed on her forehead, beneath her eyes, branching up the bridge of her nose like a burst of inked lightning. They cried _“savage,”_ and kept a wary distance. Amicable as she was with humans (and skilled as she was at out-drinking them), her face was still wrong. Ears too long, too pointed. Too _elf._

Meanwhile the Dalish were upset by the marks _not_ on her face—where her vallaslin continued in crimson, splintering trails beneath her collarbones, wrapped across the backs of her thighs and spilled downward over her hips. They cried _“irreverence,”_ and saw her as a target for a vengeful god’s wrath. Even her face was wrong—bones too angular, too sharp, the bridge of her nose far too low. Too _shem_.

Lavellan’s younger years had not been graceful, but they were past. She’d sort of hoped to _keep them_ in the past.

Lilith splayed her hands across the war table, and her advisors uncomfortably noted the look of utter downfall in her eyes. “An impromptu family reunion,” she bemoaned. “Alright. Fine. I can manage this. _We_ can manage this. We’ll manage the _shit_ out of this.” She flew through commands with the frenzy of a woman under siege. “Josie, could you round up our least elf-friendly visitors and relocate them to the furthest wing? Someone should post signs in the tavern. Maybe slap some halla statues in the garden. Or at least throw a sheet over all the Andrastes…” A look of horror dawned. “The tavern sign. Oh _shit,_ the tavern sign! Someone’s got to take that down _asap,_ or at least…paint over it, or something.”

She rattled through a jumbled lists of orders while simultaneously tugging off one of her boots. “Can someone talk to the cook? Because I’m not sure how well that whole ‘venison’ thing is going to fly. And Cullen, I need you to gather up the troops and stick them somewhere far from the main gates. Elves and armed forces don’t seem to mix too well, for whatever reason. But if we move some of the shops around, we should have room by the stables.” Her frantic stride temporarily slowed as she balanced on one leg to pull her boot off the other. “Someone get Seggrit the fuck out of here—one more ‘knife-ear’ comment and someone’s bound to shoot him. Possibly me. _Shit,_ and the _bog unicorn_ …”

After much awkward hopping she wiggled both shoes free and tossed them to a startled Cullen with the express command, “If anyone asks, those aren’t mine.”

Before the commander could piece together a reply she interrupted with, “Don’t throw them out or anything, just…hide them. Temporarily. I need those back. Just…please take care of my shoes.”

Leliana politely interjected. “Perhaps it would be beneficial to bring the rest of your circle in for a briefing? A few in particular come to mind. I can gather them in the main hall for you, if you’d like.”

“All of them come to mind,” Lilith said. “And that is a great idea.” She pulled Leliana close with a hand on each shoulder and happily kissed her on the cheek. “You’re a brilliant, well-dressed angel, Leli. What would I do without you?”

While a stunned Leliana tried to process the rosy bloom across her cheeks, Lilith looked down at her own newly-tailored outfit. A silver-clasped royal blue ensemble, patterned with starbursts. “I need to change,” she announced. “Now. What is this, Orlesian?” She began hurriedly unfastening buttons, much to Cullen’s visible distress, and headed for the door. “If you’ll excuse me, I’ve got some old Dalish armor I need to immediately scrub the blood off of. And then some _serious_ redecorating to do. Vivienne?” She rushed out the doorway without even pausing to wave goodbye. “How fast can we get a new throne? And the _curtains,_ oh lord… Vivienne! I need your assistance moving furniture!”

Lavellan jogged off down the hall, shouting orders to a slew of confused servants, and Leliana felt an inexplicable pang of dread.

Perhaps an emergency meeting _would_ be needed.

“Why do I have these?” Cullen whispered as soon as their herald dashed out of earshot. “…can elves not wear shoes?”

Josephine shrugged. “It may be a good idea for all of us to attend this meeting.” She checked something off on her stack of papers with a tight frown. “A _very_ good idea.”

A small chorus of gasps echoed from somewhere down the hall, and Leliana sighed. Perhaps another meeting on modesty would be needed, also.

* * *

 

Against all odds, Leliana miraculously managed to herd the better part of Lavellan’s inner circle into the great hall. They lined both sides of a long banquet table, her advisors stationed at the head, while Lilith paced frantic circles. “So apparently my clan is coming to visit,” she announced. “I don’t have time to get into details, but this is bad. This is a bad thing. A bad, bad thing.”

A few of them laughed—the traitors—but most had the decency to at least _look_ sympathetic. The few who understood the gravity of it shared concerned, anxious glances. Solas in particular.

Dorian raised his hand. “Fair question: is there any chance this will go near as well as _my_ family reunion?”

Lavellan could offer only a noncommittal “Maybe?” Not a great sign, so far.

“I’d really rather not fistfight your relatives.”

“And I’d really rather _no one_ did.” She finally stopped her back-and-forth pace and laid her hands flat on the tabletop, mouth set in a thin, decisive line. “Look. I’ll be honest. I do not have a good history with my clan. And I _may_ have exaggerated or omitted certain aspects of my history. It’s stupid, and complicated, and later I’ll get very drunk and you can hear all about it. But right now? Right now I just need your help. I didn’t have much advance notice, so this’ll have to be an expedited crash course on Shit Not To Do While My Clan Is Here. Hold onto your hats and please save all questions until the end.”

At the end of the table, Cole wordlessly grabbed the brim his hat. Lavellan groaned. “This is it. This is how I end.”

“Ah, come on, what’s the matter?” Varric chided, “Afraid we’ll embarrass you?”

Lilith gave a mournful sigh. “No. I’m sure I’ll do a good enough job of that on my own. Speaking of which…” She looked apologetically to Josephine. “Remember when you asked me if there were any sordid details of my past you should know about, and I lied and said there weren’t?”

Josephine gave a slow, cautious nod.

“Right. Because we should talk about that real quick before you inevitably hear some very shocking news from a person or six.”

Saint that she was, Josephine patiently requested, “Of what nature are these tales, exactly?”

“ _Well,_ ” Lilith confessed. “Just…as a random example, there may be a rumor I’m only half elf. Try not to indulge that one; they tend to get antsy about it.”

Josephine just blinked. “Don’t half-elves look outwardly human?”

“I said there was a rumor I was half _elf,_ ” she clarified. “No one said the other half was human.” Then with a truly mirthful bark of laughter, added, “I wish, though, right? That would be _so_ much easier to disprove.”

At a pleading look from Josephine, Varric could only shrug. “Don’t look at me. She’s not half _dwarf_.”

* * *

 

Trying to hold an important meeting with Lavellan’s inner circle was like herding cats. Trying to keep them all _focused_ was like herding cats on fire. Twenty minutes and three cups of tea in, Solas finally had to sit a jittering Lavellan down before she could break something. He politely confiscated her fourth cup of tea.

Suffice to say, the meeting did not go as well as hoped. Sera objected to each new rule, which eventually escalated into a full-out denouncement of the elven pantheon; Blackwall joined in with some snarky comment on political correctness, which was enthusiastically echoed by Dorian. Varric, looking _far_ too amused for his own good, did absolutely nothing to stop the mayhem, and Cole up and _disappeared_ at some point. Lavellan’s advisors tried futilely to rein them all in, and under a well-practiced guise of impassivity, Solas very discreetly panicked.

Sera—unsurprisingly—managed to shout the loudest. “Wait, where’s Bull for all this?” She looked around the table with a steadily deepening frown. “And Cassandra, and… Hey, we’re missing people!”

“She’s only worried about _us_ embarrassing her,” Varric translated, and it was all downhill from there.

Blackwall looked personally insulted. “You think _I’ll_ embarrass you more than Bull?”

“Bull’s a former Ben-Hassrath spy,” Lilith gently reminded. “And Vivienne is an imperial enchanter. Their literal _jobs_ are to be tactful. And Cassandra is perfect. Just…the perfect, polite, stoic princess. Appropriate as hell. I have no worries there.”

Sera, tipping backward in her chair, gave an offended scoff. “What, and we’re not appropriate enough for your snobby bunch of woodsy-lovin’ elves? Well excuse _me_ for not sleeping in a tree and praying to, like…a shiny deer, or something.”

Lilith looked to Blackwall with a vindicated smirk, and he had to sigh. “Alright, I see your point,” he conceded. “Apologies, lady. Carry on.”

Lilith gave a satisfied _hmph,_ and continued uninterrupted. “We’ll need to get a few things straight. Cullen, keep the Templar talk to a minimum. Shocking, I know, but the Dalish aren’t particular fans of the Chantry _or_ its soldiers. Josephine, help Cullen. He’ll need it. Solas and Sera, big request, but I need you to not be racist.”

“Dalish is a culture,” Solas corrected. “Not a race.”

“And _definitely_ don’t do that.” She looked to Sera with a jaded sigh. “Sera, they’ll know what that gesture means, so please refrain. Yes, that one too. _That_ one’s pretty much universal. You know what, just…avoid them. Avoid every elf you see. Don’t make _any_ hand gestures at _any_ elves. Square?”

Solas shifted uncomfortably in his seat, remarkably failing to hide his discontent. “It may be better if I leave for a time,” he suggested. “I have not, historically, had many cordial encounters with the Dalish.”

Lavellan looked starkly unimpressed. “We’ve fought _dragons,_ ” she stressed. “We walked physically through the fade. Faced nightmarish demons of unholy proportions _. I fought a million spiders._ I think you can handle being civil with some elves for a quick minute.”

“You,” he reminded, “have been mistaken before.”

“You and _elves_ , lord _._ Can’t you set aside the brooding elitism for a week? A week is all I’m asking. After that, you’re free to go back to being elfier-than-thou. But this one, specific _week_ —that is all I’m asking. Five days of civility.”

Dorian outright _laughed,_ and Lavellan’s gaze swiftly shifted targets. “Don’t think you’re off the hook,” she warned. “I need _you_ not to bring up Tevinter. No offense, but the Dalish are still a little sore about it. Probably on account of all the genocide. So…make a solid attempt to avoid that topic. And try not to bring up the whole ‘slavery’ issue—I get you like playing devil’s advocate, but I can assure you, a group of historically enslaved people is not the best audience for that debate. Also, maybe keep the necromancy to a minimum. Not sure how they’d feel about the ghosts of their dead ancestors being summoned back to this earthly plane to fetch a pair of shoes, you know?”

“Spirits are amorphous constructs of the Fade, _not_ -”

“ _So we’re agreed,_ ” she interrupted. “Nix the spooky shit. Blackwall, you should be alright, as long as you make absolutely _no mention_ of anything that’s gone on in the tavern. I mean it. That goes for Sera and Varric, too—if your story begins with ‘This one time when Lilith was hammered,’ then _do not tell that story_.”

“To be fair, Killer, that takes a lot of good stories off the table.”

“ _Varric,_ ” she warned. “ _No._ ”

Her list of corrections was impressive. If approached by anyone from her clan, they were all to agree upon a few key things: no she hadn’t taught their human blacksmith how to work with ironbark, yes she adhered to Andruil’s code, no she had never smoked elfroot, no _of course_ she didn’t own an undead war-horse… “And if anyone asks,” she finished, “I’ve been regularly praying to all the right gods.”

“…have you not been?” Dorian tested.

Lilith leveled an exhausted glare his way. “Ha ha. Cute.”

“No, I’m really asking. What even _do_ you pray to?” He cocked his head in study. “Sharks? Badgers, perhaps? Some unholy chimera of the two?”

“I’m about to pray for some patience, now _focus_.”

“You’re not Andrastian, are you?” Then quieter, to himself, “I feel like I should know the answer to this…”

Lavellan looked positively _betrayed_. “We spent _two solid hours_ yesterday debating who makes better wine and you decide _now_ you’d like to talk philosophy? Right this second? During my emergency meeting?”

“Actually,” Solas added, to her express indignation, “I would also enjoy hearing your answer to that.”

Lilith looked between them, open-mouthed and offended, before giving an exasperated huff. “Are you honestly telling me you’ve all spent this much time with me and you don’t even know what I believe in?”

“Nobody answer that,” Dorian warned. “It’s a diversion.”

“It’s a simple question,” Blackwall said. “‘Course it won’t matter either way, but now it’s just for curiosity’s sake.”

Josephine extended the polite addendum, “You _have_ officially given no stance…”

She was graciously saved by a loud protest from Sera. “Why’s everyone always gotta be up her arse about gods and junk? What’s it matter to _you_ which big stupid thing she prays to? None of your business anyway, is it? So leave her alone.”

For a moment Lilith thought she’d been rescued. And then Varric opened his mouth.

 “…so you _don’t_ believe in elven gods?”

Lilith let her forehead drop into the palm of her hand, defeated. “I do as far as you’re concerned for the duration of this visit.”

“…which implies that you normally don’t.”

“Oh my god,” she said, and Dorian followed it with a helpful, “Yes, but which _one?_ ”

Despite Solas’ best efforts to keep her still, Lilith was already up and pacing again. This time he followed close behind; swiped a brimming cup of tea from a servant before she could catch sight of it. The last thing she needed was _more_ energy. As it was she listed off new projects so quickly Josephine struggled to write them all down. “We need to change all the decor. The banners, heraldry, _types of chairs,_ anything. Make everything Dalish. And _definitely_ move the Qunari statues; those are…those will not go over well. Or at least toss some sheets over them. Is it possible to change the windows?”

Sera still watched from her half-tipping chair, boots crossed atop the table. She did not seem in a hurry. “If you don’t even _like_ these people,” she cut in to ask, “then why do all this running around for them? You don’t even care about proper elfy-elf shite.”

“It’s not that I don’t _like_ them,” Lilith defended. “We just have a very tumultuous history. I still want them to like _me_. Or. You know. Just…not be disappointed.” She’d begun fidgeting with her hands again, picking absently at already chipped fingernails.

“You saved their lives,” Cullen pointed out. “Maker’s sake, you’re the _Inquisitor_ —I can’t imagine they could be anything but proud of your accomplishments.”

But Lilith didn’t look so convinced.

“Someone lock up Fen’Harel,” she called, and Solas reflexively tensed before realizing she meant the cat. He cast a bewildered glance at Fen, presently sunning himself on the seat of the throne. “Are you not supposed to have pets?”

“It’s not _that,_ so much.” She stopped her frantic pacing to lay a hand on his shoulder. “But full disclosure, there may be a very nasty rumor going around that I’m a witch, so. Just…maybe keep that in mind during any potential conversations that pop up.” She gave his shoulder an apologetic pat and pasted on a near-convincing smile. “And keep Fen locked up.”

Solas would have laughed, had she not looked so grim about it. “Afraid a black cat named after a villain of Dalish legend may mar your image?”

“Well it won’t _help_. And believe me, I’m going to need all the help I can get. Someone still needs to take down the dragon scale drapes, and we’ll need a new throne before sundown.” She glanced at her throne—a massive upturned dragon’s maw, made of polished bone. “Something without teeth this time.”

“Are the Dalish particularly fond of dragons?” Blackwall asked.

“No, but a castle full of skulls might send the wrong message, don’t you think?”

“I thought ‘castle full of skulls’ _was_ your message.”

“On any other day, yes, _a thousand times_ yes, but today is not that day. Today I am a good Dalish elf.”

“Right,” Dorian agreed. “Is that why you’ve gone and named your cat after one of their big baddies?”

“He wasn’t a-” But the argument died with a sigh. “His name’s Fen because that’s his _name_. Look, he even responds to it.”

The cat, still napping on her throne, didn’t stir.

“Isn’t that sacrilegious, or something?” Varric asked. “Maybe I’ve been hanging around with the wrong kind of Dalish elves, but I’m pretty sure I’ve never heard it used in a _good_ context.”

“You could consider changing its name,” Solas suggested, and his tone cut just a bit too thin.

Lilith, predictably, refused. “Change _your_ name; Fen’s is staying.”

“Are you not afraid of invoking some ancient wrath?” he asked dryly, and Lavellan rolled her eyes with a dismissive smirk.

“If some ancient asshole’s got a problem with it then he can come fight me.”

Solas cracked a terse smile—couldn’t quite stop himself. He wasn’t so sure he would win that fight. “No fear of the Dread Wolf?”

Lilith didn’t bother looking up, and thank the Creators. “The Dread Wolf can suck my dread _dick_. I’m not changing my cat’s name.” She glanced up when Solas unceremoniously choked on a too-quick inhale. “And if you think dying will excuse you from suffering my family with me then you are sorely mistaken.”

“Probably should avoid calling upon elven gods to ‘suck your dick,’” Dorian helpfully suggested. “What with you being a good Dalish elf for the week.”

“For the week,” she repeated, and behind her heard Sera giggle at the very concept. “Just a week.” She spoke it like a desperate assurance. “We can do a week. Right? Guys?”

Her friends all murmured false encouragement, and Cole decided now was the perfect moment to reappear and sympathetically inform, “Probably not.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 01\. [Dorian's family reunion.](http://archiveofourown.org/works/4612635)  
> 02\. [the tavern sign.](http://archiveofourown.org/works/5103014)  
> 03\. [the cat.](http://archiveofourown.org/works/4975135)


	2. Chapter 2

It turned out they couldn’t change the windows. A pity. The throne was apparently too heavy to haul off, but Vivienne assured a fretful Inquisitor that she could do _marvelous_ things with some candles and a bit of well-placed foliage. They’d managed to tear down the better part of the drapery, but no one quite knew what to do about the towering golden Qunari statues. Someone suggested putting very large clothes on them. Oddly, no one volunteered.

Lavellan stood in the great arching doorway, staring down a hall torn asunder. She’d worried a scab on her bottom lip. “Are we positive we can’t change the windows?”

The measured click of heels signaled Vivienne’s approach. “Not on this short of notice, darling. But do try not to fret—perhaps they’ll find the stained glass image of a savage war-god charming.”

Lilith looked up at the windows—a gift from her Avvar allies—and weakly defended, “I thought it looked pretty.”

“I’m sure you did.” The Enchanter gave a few light taps to her shoulder—a greater show of sympathy than she was used to. “Honestly, dear, you look dreadful. Take a hot bath and a long nap—leave me to take care of renovations. They’re Dalish elves; they can’t possibly be harder to please than Comte Boivsert, and he _still_ raves about my improvements to his estate.” She looked up in time to notice Solas silently approach. “Speaking of improvements. Would you also like me to fix _that?_ ”

“No thank you.” Lilith caught his eye and grinned. “I kind of like him like that.”

“Inquisitor,” Solas greeted. He looked fleetingly to Vivienne with a thin frown. “I was hoping we might speak privately.”

Vivienne, safely out of Lilith’s line of sight, _scowled_. “Yes,” she agreed, “best to get frivolities done with now, before something _important_ requires your attention.”

The groan Lilith gave echoed throughout the entire hall. “Really? _Right now?_ ” She clapped a hand over Solas’ mouth before he could respond. “We talked about this, guys. No passive aggressive insult-banter until the week’s over. So both of you, _please,_ just…be nice. It doesn’t even have to be sincere, you just have to show effort.”

She removed her hand in time for Solas to remark, “I'm sure _Madame Vivienne_ will have no difficulty there. Shows of insincerity are, after all, her strong suit.”

For the hundredth time that day, Lilith buried her face in her hands and sighed. “What did I _just_ say?”

“It was a compliment,” he said evenly.

Lilith swallowed back an argument with admirable effort. “You know what,” she announced, “you’re right. Now is the _perfect_ time to speak privately. In fact we should go do that. Right now.” She clamped her hand into the fabric of his shirt and towed him with her toward the war room. “I’m depending on you, Vivienne,” she called back. Then, quickly, “ _No fighting_.”

Vivienne wasn’t proud of it, but she _may_ have flashed their resident apostate a very rude gesture after Lavellan turned her back.

* * *

 

Solas considered himself a reasonable enough man. He had no difficulty admitting he possessed a frankly impressive amount of flaws. (Although perhaps not as many as Vivienne.) Still—of all his failings, he never counted “illogical” among them. _Logic_ was supposed to be one of his few strengths. (And coincidentally another thing he was better at than Vivienne.) _This,_ though…well.

It was his own fault.

He held Lavellan to impossible standards. He knew that. Despite her continuous brash attempts to prove the contrary, Lilith was still only a _person_ —a brief and temporary flash of mortality, gone in a moment. It was painfully easy to forget, but beneath all her heavy titles she was still just a Dalish girl, caught up by tragic circumstance.

But that wasn’t quite right. Solas had built her up into something more than that, more than _herself,_ and it was his own fault.

Until now Lilith had existed as some hazy entity shimmering somewhere outside of reality. A bright-burning comet, fleeting and doomed, streaking fire across a black and empty sky. She was…unreal, to him. Different. Something bigger, and brighter, and… Solas wondered at times, in shameful, fleeting daydreams, that if Lilith had existed then, before the fall, if maybe…

Solas was a pessimist. Had good cause to be, even. But in hazy, indulgent daydreams, he still liked to imagine Lilith saving the world.

But this was not a dream. This was a foray into dark, messy paths of twisting histories he didn’t want to know, because once he did she would no longer be something blissfully _other_. She’d be someone’s daughter, or sister, or…

It was irrational. He was aware of that. But seeing her family would make her that much more _real_ , and he didn’t think he could bear that. If Lilith was real, they all would be.

If she was real he could never truly have her.

It was selfish, and foolish, and he was supposed to be _better_ , but he could not do this.

Not yet.

Once the door closed behind them Lilith leaned up and kissed him. It took him far too long to pull away. “This was not what I meant when I said ‘speak.’”

“You’re right,” she agreed, although he noticed it didn’t stop her fingers from inching below his waist.

He caught her hand with the utmost reluctance. “I'd hoped to discuss your clan.”

“That’s a first,” she said with a shadow of laughter, but graciously stopped trying to undress him. “What about them?”

 _Well._  Where to start... “My encounters with Dalish elves have not generally been amicable.”

“I can’t possibly imagine why.” She feigned surprise for only a moment before breaking into a wry smile. “But, hey, first time for everything, right?”

Solas sincerely doubted that. “Perhaps I should leave,” he tried again. “At least until the week’s end.”

“ _You_ ,” Lavellan countered, “aren’t going anywhere. I am not doing this thing alone.” Any protests left building in his throat shrunk away when she twined her fingers with his and confessed something terrible in a voice that dipped too low. “I need you.”

Oh.

“Besides,” she encouraged, “you get along just fine with me. And I don’t know if all the vallaslin gave it away or not, but I am, in fact, a Dalish elf.”

“Yes, but you are…” He tried to narrow down fitting adjectives and instead finished with, “ _You._ ”

“I don’t know whether I should take that as a compliment or not.”

“A compliment to you,” he said, “but unfortunately not to your people.”

“Stop calling them _my_ people; they’re just _people_. Everyone’s people. Your people, whether you like it or not.” She smoothed her hands over the collar of his shirt, lips pursed. “And definitely mine. So stick around and play nice for the week, okay? As a personal favor.”

“Of course,” he obliged, however unhappily. He wished he could promise the same civility on her clan’s part. Alas.

“I actually think you’d have gotten along really well with a girl I used to know,” she went on. “Sweetest thing, with these big, doe eyes. She was all _about_ the Fade, and lost knowledge, and elven lore… Little bit of a blood mage, but really, sweetest thing.”

“Delightful,” he deadpanned. “Will she be attending?”

“I wish. Then it might not be such a disaster.” At his ensuing sigh she added a rushed, “ _Kidding._ Sort of.”

“There truly is no way to avoid this, then.”

“If there was, I wouldn’t have to tear apart the castle.” With a wicked grin, she tugged him forward by the cord around his neck. “So, did you want to talk some more, or…?”

“…are you serious?”

“What, are you not?”

“This is the war room,” he coolly informed, “it's mid-afternoon, and that door has no lock.”

“And this is important Inquisition business,” she countered, “which we may not get a chance to discuss again for a while.”

“ _Right,_ of course—I nearly forgot about the delicate sensibilities of the Dalish. I must take those into consideration.”

Lilith frowned. “We just talked about this this morning. You cannot be racist this week.”

“When have I ever-”

“Constantly,” she cut off. “You do it constantly. And while it’s normally so _charming,_ I’ll have to ask that you please refrain while my family’s here.”

“You realize this wouldn't be a problem if I simply _left_.”

“Oh my god,” she groaned, and Solas couldn’t help himself.

“And which one would that be, again?”

She glowered up at him. “Not you, too.”

“You never did give a real answer.”

“Cassandra once asked you what you believed in and you said, ‘Cause and effect.’ You have _no right_ to complain about vague answers to philosophical inquiries.”

“I still _answered_.”

“ _Barely_.” Her stare turned decidedly sharper. “What, are you suddenly concerned for the safety of my mortal soul?”

Ardently and far too often. “No. Merely curious. I've noticed you evade the subject whenever it reemerges. Which raises the question—which gods _do_ you revere?”

She studied him with a distrustful frown, carefully considering whether or not to reply. “I don’t,” she finally admitted. “Not _gods,_ anyway. Not like you’re thinking. I mean, who even decides what constitutes a god? Who defines godhood, and where is this mysterious gatekeeper of divinity?” She waved her hands for emphasis, already exhausted with the topic. “It’s just so _relative_. Maybe to some bear a big stupid rock is god. Are you a god? Am I a god? Is this stupid rock a god? Probably not, but who knows? It depends whose definition you’re using.”

“You would deny the existence of _any_ gods, then?”

“I’m not denying the existence of _anything_ ,” she defended. “You’re missing the point. I’m saying anything is possible. The universe is vast and chaos reigns supreme; maybe there is a higher power governing us all, maybe there’s not. Maybe that stupid rock actually is a god. It probably isn’t, but if that makes you a better person, then knock yourself out. Worship the rock-god.”

“So you believe in nothing,” he summarized, and she looked positively offended.

“No, I believe in _anything_. Big difference.”

“Anything,” he repeated. “Right, of course—a much less vague response than ‘cause and effect.’”

“What I’m saying,” she stressed, “is that nothing is ever truly predictable. Reality as we perceive it is so vast and complex as to make absolute certainty about anything _impossible_. So. What do I believe in? Two things, mostly: no one is ever in control, and life will always find a way. Chaos reigns and the world goes on. The best we can do is give it a little helpful assistance now and then, and hope for the best. The rest is all relative.”

“Simple as that?”

“Well, I might have skipped over a few details, but as far as brief summaries of theology systems go, I think that about covers it.”

She must have expected an argument, because she seemed shocked when he pulled her in with a hand at her waist and tipped her chin up into a kiss. “I love you. I hope you know that.”

“And you’re saying so in something other than Elven this time?” She touched a hand to her heart in faux surprise. “My, my. This _must_ be a special occasion.”

Solas hadn’t noticed he did.

“Unfortunately,” she went on, “‘the swirling chaos of a grand and cosmic void’ isn’t really a great answer to ‘What do you believe in?’ Does terribly at parties. I’ll never understand why.” She pressed a soft kiss to his jaw, and sweetly requested, “But maybe don’t mention it to my clan.”

“Where did you come from?” he murmured, and Lilith hummed laughter against his skin.

“Venatori nightmares, probably.” She pulled herself up to sit on the edge of the war table, legs dangling off the side, and tugged him close by the corner of his shirt. “So…where did we land on the less-talking business, again?”

“ _Vhenan,_ ” he warned, but couldn’t for the life of him pull away. “This is unwise.”

“I’ll talk some more about relativity,” she purred, and, well. He would admit that may have had certain adverse effects on him. “Come on,” she tempted. “Everyone’s busy with emergency renovations, and I’m in a very important meeting. Who’s just going to barge in without knocking?”

The answer was Cullen, apparently.

Cullen did.

After taking far too long to slam the door back shut, Cullen’s horrified voice filtered in from the hallway. “Maker’s _breath._ We _use_ that table!”

While Solas whispered curses in Elven and hurriedly redressed, a starkly naked Lavellan only _cackled_. “What did I say? Nothing is ever truly predictable?”

“ _This isn’t funny,_ ” Solas reprimanded.

“It kind of is, though.”

Solas tried to toss her shirt to her and instead knocked over a candelabra with a fantastic _crash._

“Well,” Lilith decided as she hastily tugged a pair of pants on backwards. “That’s one way to start off the week.”

* * *

 

Dorian watched from a banquet table as a small band of servants dragged a decorative dragon skull off to no doubt stash in a closet. “Have any of you ever met Dalish elves before?” he mused aloud.

Bull answered first with a quick, “Yeah.” Then, less confidently, “Uh. Sort of. I mean, _technically_ they were all Viddathari, so…”

“I haven’t either,” Dorian finished. “And I’m starting to doubt Lilith’s credibility as an exemplary Dalish elf.”

“I know people who’ve met them,” Blackwall said. “Never had a run in with them personally. Heard a lot of superstitious nonsense about them, though.” He watched a laundress march past with a basket full of particularly blood-crusted clothing. “…do you think any of the rumors about them hold any truth?”

“They _do_ in fact frolic,” Varric informed, “but not, ironically in the woods.” At the expectant stares of his friends he could only shrug. “Sorry, that’s all I got. I only know one other Dalish elf, and she never had me meet her parents. But if Daisy was anything to go by, then no—I don’t think Killer exactly qualifies as an exemplary Dalish girl.”

Echoing up from one of the lower rooms, a maid’s shrill and faraway shout: “Now what the fuck is _this?!_ ”

Dorian gave a sympathetic wince. “The jacket from the exploding spider mishap?”

“Nah,” Bull guessed. “My bet’s on the shirt from the ice troll.”

Dorian thought back to Lavellan’s confession of estrangement. The dreadful anxiety of familial disappointment. “ _‘Tumultuous history,’_ ” he echoed, insulted on her behalf. “How could anyone possibly find Lilith anything less than enchanting?”

Across from them, a pair of servants dutifully worked to take down the line of war axes along the wall.

“Well, she’s still young, isn’t she?” Blackwall reasoned. “No one gets on well with their parents _all_ the time.”

“Is she, though?” Bull countered. “Honestly, think about it. How old is Lilith?”

Blackwall scoffed. “What do you mean how _old_ is she? She’s…ah. Well she’d have to be around…”

“She’s an elf,” Dorian reminded. “She could be _forty,_ for all we could tell. How old is Sera, ten? We simply have no way of knowing.”

“No one can still drink like that and be forty,” Blackwall argued. “Not while actively functioning the next day. She’s got to be, what, in her twenties?”

“I’m putting it at thirty,” Bull said. “Give or take a couple years.”

“I’m sure Leliana has it written down somewhere,” Blackwall guessed, but Bull responded with an unhappy grunt.

“She doesn’t. I checked. Seems that information was conveniently ‘missing’ from her file.”

“Varric?” Dorian nodded his way. “She’s told you her birthday, hasn’t she?”

“She has,” he agreed, “and you’ll notice I’m not commenting on it.”

Dorian pushed on, undeterred. “Just give us _hints._ Is she older or younger than Sera?”

“No way,” Varric stated. “Not doing this. You want to find out? Ask her yourself some time. It’s an experience.”

Dorian gave an entirely too dramatic sigh. “This entire _week_ is going to be an experience.”

“You think it’s as bad as she’s making it out to be?” Blackwall wondered aloud, and Iron Bull just laughed.

“I once saw her slice a guy’s head clean off and then _kick it_ into another guy’s face. So, yeah. Pretty sure it’s possible our girl could wrack up a reputation.”

“In her defense,” Varric said, “both of those guys _were_ trying to kill us.”

“ _After_ actively attempting to massacre a bunch of unarmed villagers,” Dorian added. “So. It equals out then, doesn’t it? Fantastic violence in the face of fantastic fuckery?”

“Maybe don’t say it like that to her parents, but sure.”

Dorian cast a pensive stare at the bare wall. The discarded axes were starting to form a pile. “Whatever happens, we cannot be the ones to ruin this for her. We owe her that much.”

“They live in the bloody _forest,_ ” Blackwall thought relevant to point out. “How hard to please could they possibly be?”

An especially red-faced Cullen hurried past them without looking up from the floor, muttering something under his breath about _locks,_ followed moments later by a flushed and unevenly dressed Inquisitor and her elven paramour. For a moment the table fell silent. “Well,” Dorian finally answered, “they probably won’t be ecstatic about _that._ ”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 01\. [elven I-love-you's.](http://archiveofourown.org/works/4478216/chapters/10179653)  
> 


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _Holy shit,_ thank you guys so much for all the comments and kudos! I dunno if you know this, but like...every single one makes my whole damn week just _that_ much better. ༼ง=ಥ益ಥ=༽ง Y'all give me life and I adore you. _Thank you._

Vivienne truly was a miracle worker. When Lilith entered the great hall the next morning, it was like seeing it for the very first time—all the reds and golds replaced by shades of verdant green, the walls adorned with artful depictions of Dalish triumphs. The dragon scale drapes were gone, and in their stead flowing green drapery embroidered with fine white trees. The skulls and dragon eggs had been replaced with halla statues and leafy Dalish masks; all the heraldry now proudly bearing the clan Lavellan insignia. Somewhere in the night Vivienne had even found time to put together long, flowing robes to drape over the Qunari statues.

Lilith looked up at the windows—glittering Dalish glass—and gasped. “You _fixed the windows_.”

“I called in a favor,” Vivienne informed. “We can’t very well have an Avvar _war god_ staring down at your elves, can we? Now the windows match the rest of the décor.” She was caught off guard when Lavellan abruptly wrapped her in a tight hug.

“Vivienne,” she said, awed, “you stylish beacon of light in a dark, dark world. This is going to sound weird, but I love you.”

Vivienne, unsure what else to do, affectionately patted her head. “I know, darling. And you’re welcome.”

Her duties as Inquisitor, unfortunately, did not stop to afford vacation time. Josephine rushed her off before she could even properly admire the new curtains, and she spent the better half of the morning planning out strategies in the war room, all family preparations put firmly on hold. Cullen, she noticed, was having trouble looking her in the eye. It took her a second to remember why that was.

Josephine and Leliana must have noticed—as soon as their commander excused himself and disappeared out the door, they both fixed Lilith with twin quizzical stares. “Does Cullen seem slightly…off, to you?”

And helpful as ever, Lilith dutifully explained, “Well. He may have seen me naked. Briefly.”

While Leliana laughed, their poor ambassador could only give an exhausted sigh. “You do realize if I get another complaint about modesty I’ll be required to write you a very stern letter, do you not?”

“I don’t think he was complaining,” Leliana pointed out, and Lilith nodded.

“He just might not make direct eye contact with me for a while.”

It took every ounce of Josephine’s worn-thin patience not to bury her head in her hands.

Another slow hour of Inquisitorial duties, and Lilith was finally freed to continue family-proofing Skyhold. She snuck an anxious glance out the window as she walked, trying to gauge the remaining daylight. If no one else required her immediate attention, she _just_ might have time to retry washing the stains out of her good set of Dalish armor…

She made it as far as Josephine’s office door before an anxiously waiting Cassandra called her attention with a fretful “Inquisitor?”

Lilith waved for her to follow, only barely slowing to tug open the next door. “My favorite Seeker,” she greeted, “what’d you need?”

Cassandra kept pace beside her, brows knit in distress. “I wanted to speak to you about your family.”

“Well isn’t _that_ the topic of the hour. What about them?”

“I…have not known many elves,” she admitted, “and the ones I did meet were not Dalish, which I understand makes quite a bit of difference. And I…am ashamed to say I know very little of their culture.” She frowned. “It upsets me to think I’ve spent so much time with you and yet never thought to ask of your life before this.”

“You’ve asked,” Lilith encouraged. “I’ve just never given a good answer. That’s not _your_ fault.”

“I admit, I often find myself forgetting you are Dalish at all.”

“To be fair,” she defended, “I’m pretty sure most Dalish forget that, too.”

The assurance brought Cassandra no comfort. Instead her frown subtly deepened. “What if I offend them?”

Lilith merely dismissed the idea with a wave. “Look, Cass, don’t worry about it. Really. Of everyone in this castle, you’ve probably talked the least amount of shit about elves. And that’s including the other elves here. You’re smart; you won’t have any issues this week.” As soon as the words left her mouth she hurriedly reached out to tap her knuckles against a dining chair. “Knock on wood.”

Cassandra gave in with a tired sigh. “Your faith in me is outstanding. Ill-placed, but outstanding still.”

“You’ll do _fine_ ,” Lilith assured. “Just maybe don’t bring up the Chantry.”

“If you could just give me a list of acceptable topics, I could-”

“What, you think _I_ know what to talk to them about? I don’t know if you’ve picked up on it yet, but I am a really shitty elf. Honestly, your guess is as good as mine.”

“You are not a ‘shitty elf,’” Cassandra admonished. “I may not be familiar with many elven customs, but I know that much.”

Lilith only laughed. “Cassandra Allegra Portia Calogera Filomena Pentaghast,” she said, “my beautiful warrior princess. Prepare to be _very_ disappointed.”

* * *

 

Theoretically, everything was proceeding smoothly. Josephine and Leliana did their jobs so well it actually did other people’s jobs _for_ them, which was no surprise to anyone. Cullen, meanwhile, had done an impressive job of hastily demilitarizing. It was barely noon, and he’d already wrangled their scattered troops together and given an extensive talk on appropriate behavior for the week to come. A truly momentous task, as it turned out. Many of the soldiers claimed they’d never met a Dalish elf before—to which their exasperated commander reminded, “Oh, for Maker’s sake… _the Inquisitor_ is a Dalish elf!”

Admittedly, a few still didn’t make the connection.

The only work left for Lavellan’s companions was the simple matter of _wardrobe_ —or so claimed Vivienne once she caught sight of Sera.

Sera, eloquent as ever, argued, “Elfy-elves aren’t gonna give two shits if my clothes aren’t ‘in season,’” to which a smiling Vivienne blithely responded, “Wearing a lovely shade of yesterday’s lunch is never ‘in season,’ dear.”

Even Dorian couldn’t get Sera out of that one. What he could do, however, was snag her while Vivienne was busy overseeing curtain installations and make a run for it. Presently they were both holed up in the rotunda—the only room left untouched by the new design overhaul. Out in the hall, the clicking footsteps of a hell-bent enchantress echoed away toward the opposite wing.

Sera stacked a few stolen buckets in front of the door—“ _You know, like an alarm or something_.”—while Dorian casually picked through the papers atop Solas' desk. Most of it was in Elven. Figures.

“I’ll never understand this relationship,” he marveled. “Has Lilith ever explained to _you_ what that’s all about?”

“She thinks he’s funny,” Sera explained, carefully re-positioning her bucket pyramid. “And she likes his butt.”

“That…well, that does sound like her.” He flipped open one of Solas’ books—miraculously something _readable_ this time. “Speaking of whom. No chance she’s mentioned her birthday to you, has she?”

With her makeshift alarm set, Sera gracelessly knocked a glowing shard off the desktop and cleared a space to sit. “ _Pff,_ as if. She won’t even give me a _month_. You think she had a really shite birthday party once as a kid, or something? Like…maybe a dragon ate her dog on her birthday, and now she’s all ‘no more birthdays ever!’ You know? Something right awful.”

“I think she just enjoys watching me suffer,” Dorian said.

Sera idly swung her legs, still keeping careful watch on the door. “Hey, when Lilith said there was stuff we didn’t know about, you think she meant _all_ of us, or just, like…everyone else? I mean, we know most stuff about her, right?”

“Of course she didn’t mean _us,_ ” Dorian insisted. “She tells us everything. Also Varric, apparently, although I have no clue how or why that is.”

Her fixed gaze soured into a glare. “You think Solas knows everything?”

“I have it on _very_ good authority that I know at least five things he doesn’t,” Dorian assured, snapping his stolen book shut. “So no, I’d say not.”

“He know how she got that scar?”

“Please. That’s number four.”

Sera snorted on a mad burst of giggles. “What’d Vivi want to change about _your_ clothes, anyway?”

“Oh, she didn’t. I just figured you could use the help.” With a disbelieving scoff, he added, “ _My_ wardrobe is flawless.”

“Your wardrobe’s _stupid,_ ” she countered. “But thanks, I guess.”

“I’m doing this just as much for my benefit. I think you might just explode if someone stuck you in elven armor, and that would take _ages_ to clean up.”

The door swung open amid a clatter of falling buckets, and they turned to see an exceptionally irritated elven apostate in the doorway. Solas looked between the scattered mess on his desk and the pile of empty buckets with an exhausted sigh. “What are you doing here?”

“Avoiding someone,” Dorian said. “You?”

“I _work_ here.”

Sera motioned him over with a quick wave and a hushed voice. “Hey, fade-face! Shut the door and c’mere! You’d know, right? How old’s Lilith?”

Solas silently eased the door shut, ignoring the new nickname for the moment. “You think she’s told _me?_ ”

Dorian groaned. “Oh _come on,_ she told Varric!”

“I’m aware,” Solas thinly informed. “But I am not Varric.”

“Is she older or younger than Sera?” he asked, and Solas actually _laughed._

“Of course she’s not younger than _Sera_.”

“Why can’t she be younger than me?” Sera protested, vaguely offended. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Because that’d make her, what,” Dorian considered, “nine?”

“Oh _ha_ -fuckin- _ha_.” She landed a menacing smack to his arm. “How old are you lot, a hundred?”

The door slammed back open under a swift kick, nearly sending Sera toppling, and a grinning Inquisitor strolled in clad in shining Dalish armor. “So,” she announced, “on a scale of one to _someone get this girl a halla,_ how elfy do I look?”

“Eight?” Dorian guessed. “Nine if you managed to get that fade-demon gunk off the back of it.”

“So an eight, then,” Lilith said. “Alright. I’ll take it.”

Sera eyed the hem of her skirt, lips cracking into a grin. “You wearing anything underneath that leafy getup?”

“Of course,” Lilith scoffed. “ _Confidence_.” She turned in a slow circle, hands on her hips. “So this looks okay, right? ‘Cause green tends to make me look kind of…green-ish. Or a very sickly olive.” She tugged self-consciously at her new foot bindings, still lamenting the loss of her boots. “Why couldn’t it be blue? I look great in blue.”

“You look magnificent in blue,” Dorian corrected. “But this is lovely, too. Very elfy. Your parents will most certainly approve.”

“Someone better approve,” she agreed. “It took _forever_ to get that fade gunk off. Or. Most of it.”

The echoing click of high-heeled steps drew closer from the hall, a built-in Enchanter alarm. Sera grabbed Dorian by the sleeve and _yanked_. “Shit, it’s Vivi!”

Lilith helpfully pointed to the door leading out to Cullen’s room, earning a gleeful “ _Perfect!_ ” from Sera. She scrambled from the desk, pulling Dorian behind her. “Come on, if we go along the wall we can get to the tavern!”

He waved helplessly to Lilith as they disappeared out the door. “If you need me I’ll be in the tavern, apparently.” The two were halfway to Cullen’s room when he called back an encouraging, “And you’re a very _pretty_ olive!”

Solas took a weary seat at the scattered remains of his desk, already restacking books. “Are you quite positive you want _them_ meeting your family?”

“I don’t want _any_ of you meeting my family, ideally. But that ship’s sailed.” She gave up fussing with a broken clasp on her side. “I miss my blue shirt.”

Solas had mixed feelings regarding Lilith’s Dalish armor. On one hand it served as a hideous reminder of the destruction of his People—a crude imitation of an imitation, worn proudly by elves with no inkling of their origins. On the other hand, it was quite short. Lilith crawled into his lap to straddle him, and the slits in her skirt split all the way up to her hips. Solas smoothed a hand up her thigh, wary of just how high he ventured. “Is this an entirely wise choice?”

“ _Solas,_ ” she reprimanded, “when have I ever been anything other than a beacon of wisdom?”

“Yesterday comes to mind.”

“It was a rhetorical question,” she said. “You don’t actually need to answer.”

“Apparently I do.”

She sat back with a slow-growing smile. “Fine. You’re right. I guess I’ll just…take my leave…” She moved to climb off of him and was immediately stilled by the press of his hand on her thigh. She settled back into place with a triumphant smirk. “That’s what I thought.”

Solas didn’t argue. Instead voiced a question that’d been bothering him since she first announced the reunion: “How exactly am I supposed to introduce myself to your clan?”

“Well, ‘Solas’ seems to be your name at the moment, so I’d probably start with that.”

“In relation to you,” he clarified.

Lilith gave a loose shrug. “Personally I’ve always been kind of partial to ‘lover,’ but it’s your call. My suitor, beau, gentleman caller… _chevalier servant,_ I think the Orlesians call it. Really, up to you. Maybe _inamorato,_ if you’re taking suggestions. It just means ‘male lover’ but doesn’t it sound fancy? _Inamorato._ Ugh. Kills me.”

“You want me to introduce myself as your _lover?_ ” he tested.

“‘Boyfriend’ probably works just as well, honestly.”

He cracked the driest of smiles. “I thought the goal was _not_ to upset your family.”

“What, you think this will upset them? Don’t take this the wrong way, but you are not the most upsetting thing I’ve done.”

“I’m unsure what the ‘right way’ to take that is.”

She silenced his complaints with a kiss. An effective tactic. “Look, you’re one of the few parts of my life I’m _not_ embarrassed of. At least let me have this, alright? Let me have _something_ good to show my family.”

“You built an Inquisition,” he pointed out.

“Which should say an awful lot about how much I like you.” She ran her hand smoothly up his chest; leaned in close and whispered, “Now, you want to hear some more thoughts on the notion of universality and its opposition to relativism?”

“I would,” he admitted, and she laughed.

“Of course you would.”

He pulled her into another kiss, and for a moment actually considered they might just survive the week. The moment disappeared just as quickly as it came when Vivienne’s laughter echoed from the open doorway. “Oh, your family is going to _love_ that.”

* * *

 

By late afternoon, it was time for one final meeting. A last gathering before the coming hurricane. This time Leliana had gathered all of Lavellan’s inner circle together, plus a few extra for good measure—Dagna, Harding, a handful of Chargers, that chattering Orlesian couple whose names she could never remember (although no one had actually invited them)…

“Trust me,” Lilith said. “ _Everyone_ will need to hear this.”

Lilith had set up a code word to use as a warning if ever one of them veered into dangerous territory. An understood signal to _stop talking_. (Or, as Bull helpfully worded it, “You want to have a watchword for _polite conversations?_ ”)

Yes. Yes she did. And that word was “squirrel.”

She paced before her gathered companions like a general before her army. “Consider squirrel our warning system,” she instructed. “Someone’s about to tell a hilarious yet potentially compromising story? _Squirrel._ Dug yourself a hole and need immediate assistance? _Squirrel._ From now on, squirrel is our emergency beacon. _Squirrel is our one hope at surviving this_.”

And that was fine and all, except for the unfortunate discovery that Cassandra could not for the life of her correctly pronounce “squirrel.”

“Skworl,” she tried, maintaining a stony facade despite the wave of snickering behind her. “Skrurel. _Squerl._ Squeril. S…squil?”

Of all the attempts to suppress laughter, Varric’s was by far the worst. “Keep trying, Seeker, that last one was so _close_.”

Cassandra pinned him with a livid glare, and swore, “ _I will not need to say_ _squiral_.”

Varric was about to make what was sure to be an unappreciated comment when Lilith cut in with an insistent, “No, no, it’s fine. She’s right; she’s not the one who’ll need it. It’s _you_ inappropriate bunch of assholes I’m worried about.”

Pressed unhappily between Sera and Varric, Solas raised his hand. “Must I really be here for this?”

With a sympathetic tilt of her head, Lilith gently informed, “Honestly? You’re exactly one of the assholes I’m worried about.”

He moved to argue that, but Josephine politely cleared her throat from the entryway and the table fell suddenly silent. “Mistress Lavellan?” she called. “Your clan has been sighted in the mountain pass. I’ve sent out some of our elven agents to safely escort them the rest of the journey. They should be approaching the gates soon.”

Lilith looked up at her with the cold stare of a prisoner at the gallows. “You calling it?”

“I am…calling it,” Josephine surrendered. “It is time.”

Lilith blew out a shaky exhale. “Quick; everyone gather in.”

Her companions huddled close in a crowded circle, Lavellan squished near the center. “This is not a drill, guys,” she grimly stated. “We’re really doing this. So please, just…be appropriate. Be polite. And for god’s sake, don’t start a fight.” She closed her eyes and swallowed back a curse. “I love you all, and I trust you’ll put something clever on my headstone when this is all over.”

“ _Here lies Lilith_ ,” Varric recited. “ _Died the same way she lived: covered in blood and swearing profusely_.”

“Poignant,” she decided. “Thank you.” She took a deep, slow breath, and held her arms wide. “Now someone please hug me.”

Dorian and Sera each took a side.

“ _Alright,_ ” she announced. “Let’s meet some elves.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Dalish warrior armor](http://lavellanpls.tumblr.com/post/131828186078/lilith-look-ma-no-pants-lavellan) is hilariously inappropriate, if you haven't noticed.
> 
> Also, if anyone wanted reference pics for Lilith, I've got a [whole tag full of 'em.](http://lavellanpls.tumblr.com/tagged/lavellan%20caps) ᕕ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡° )ᕗ


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mind the warnings.

The day Lavellan’s clan arrived at Skyhold’s gates was truly an experience. Not necessarily an _enjoyable_ one, but an experience still. A caravan of tattooed elves arrived before the setting sun, with an older elven woman leading from the front. A greying mage in Keeper robes. Despite the chaos of her inner circle, Lavellan’s advisors performed magnificently—Josephine arranged a welcome party in the lower courtyard, where Cullen had carefully pulled any troops from view. Leliana must have tracked down every elf she could find within Skyhold’s walls to gather at the gate. A show of diplomacy, Solas supposed. The eager young Dalish recruit from the Exalted Plains—Loranil, was it?—was positively _ecstatic_. More so than usual.

Solas himself watched from a careful distance.

A herd of Lavellan’s inner circle crowded in amongst the others, vying for a glimpse. Cullen was the first to greet the party.

“Keeper Istimaethorial.” He extended his hand. “It’s an honor to finally meet you in person.”

“Call me Deshanna, please. A friend of our People is a friend of ours.” She greeted the Commander with a warm, clasping handshake, and announced entirely too loud, “And _you_ must be the one who has captured our Lilith’s heart.” She sized him up with a sweeping glance before Cullen could stammer out a correction, and decided aloud with an amused chuckle, “I suppose she always has had a type.”

“ _Oh,_ no, that’s not- we, ah… Well you see-” Aghast, Cullen looked helplessly to Sera, whose stifled laughter had begun to make her snort, and finished lamely with, “We’re friends. Just…er. Good friends.”

“Ah, my apologies.” She looked expectantly to Sera, eyes alight. “An elf, then! Even better.”

Sera _cackled_. “Ohh, not a chance. I wish though, right? Or. _She_ wishes. Pff. Losing out, that one. Anyway sorry lady Istam-or-other. You’ve got the wrong kind of elf.”

Deshanna gave an apologetic nod. “Forgive me; Lilith’s letters mentioned only that she’d fallen for a quick wit and a lovely pair of eyes. I could only assume.”

Sera’s laughter dissolved into a nervous fit of giggles. “Oh, I could get used to this one. Assuming… _ha_. Right, well. _Eyes_ and such…” She looked to Dorian with a too-wide grin. “She thinks I’m lovely. You hearing this?”

“ _Oh,_ ” he said, and tried exceptionally hard not to laugh, “I’m hearing this, alright.”

Deshanna turned, and behind her Sera and Dorian apparently found something _hilarious_ to titter about. Solas’ jaw was starting to ache from the effort it took to hold back a grimace. She was still smiling when her eyes stopped on Bull and she ventured a hopeful, “So…?”

And that was it. Under a veil of barely restrained hostility, Solas managed a curt, “ _Me._ It’s me.”

Solas did not expect a warm reception from Lilith’s people. They were _Dalish,_ after all, and Solas had…a complicated relationship thus far with Dalish elves. (They used his name as a threat. Sometimes an insult. Sometimes both at once.) Bitterness aside, though, he sincerely doubted they would be overjoyed at the thought of one of their own stooping so low as to have a _relationship_ with some flat-ear hedge mage. As for his own harbored preconceptions…well. His previous dealings with the Dalish had been tenuous at best, and that was _before_ he was illicitly familiar with their champion.

He expected cold, silent disapproval, if not outright hostility. The actual reaction he received was quite a bit different.

Deshanna turned, brow raised, and took him in with an appreciative nod. “Ah, a mage! Yes, of course. I should have guessed.” She commandeered his hand with a firm grasp and a grin and pulled him into one _very_ unexpected hug. “ _Aneth ara,_ friend,” she greeted, and Solas was gratefully released after a firm clap to his back. “I imagine you and I have _much_ to talk about.”

Oh, no. This was a hundred times worse than anything he expected.

Lilith came tearing down the steps and elbowed her way through the crowd with impressive dedication before she slid to a teetering halt before her Keeper. “ _Deshanna!_ ” she greeted, out of breath. “Hey, hi; welcome! These are, ah…well this is my castle.” She gestured absently to the air. “Or. Fortress. It’s…I’m staying here, at the moment.” She motioned disjointedly to her companions. “These are my friends and people. Also Inquisition. And, ah…”

Her Keeper cut her off when she took her by the shoulders and pulled her into a crushing hug. “ _Ma vher’assan_ ,” she greeted, and planted a kiss on her tattooed forehead.

_My tiger._

The smile that broke Lilith’s face casually broke Solas’ heart.

He did not want to be here for this.

“Beautiful as ever,” Deshanna happily observed. Then, worriedly: “Not thinner, I hope? Have you been eating enough?”

Lilith tried to dodge the worried touch to her face, cheeks only growing redder. “I eat fine, honestly…” She caught Solas’ eyes and forced a cough. “But where are my manners? This is Solas,” she introduced for him. “My…well. You know. We’re… You’ve probably gotten the point. My, ah…”

“ _Ma vhenan_ ,” he helpfully supplied, and was not at all prepared for the way a giggling Lilith snatched his arm and _blushed_.

“ _Right._ Yeah. And this is my Keeper,” she introduced. “Deshanna Istimaethorial Lavellan. Or just…Deshanna.”

“We’ve met,” she said, but dutifully shook his hand. A firm, purposeful handshake. Somehow it only made him want to disappear faster.

Lilith finally released her vice grip on his arm to gesture to each advisor in turn. “These are my advisors, of course—our spymaster, Leliana, our ever-talented diplomat, Josephine… And you’ve already met Cullen, my platonic commander of the non-sexual variety.”

Somewhere behind her, Cullen just sighed. “Please don’t let that be my new title.”

Lilith whisked her Keeper down a line of quick introductions, never pausing long enough for her companions to sneak in questions. Cole gave her away almost immediately, of course. An impressive record.

Lilith hadn’t even introduced him yet when he took her Keeper by the hand, eyes wide and haunting, and gravely informed, “It’s not your fault you lost the child. Sometimes people die, and it’s not anyone’s fault.”

While a horrified Lilith could only gape, Deshanna gave his hand a firm, polite shake. “Well. What a nice boy.”

“Sorry,” Lilith apologized. “He’s…newly human. Still getting used to it.”

Deshanna nodded as if that explanation made any sort of sense, and a guilt-stricken Cole looked apologetically to Lilith.

“Oh. Sorry. I wasn’t supposed to say that. I was supposed to say…squirrel?”

“ _Hello_ ,” Lilith corrected. “ _Hello_ would have worked.”

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I wasn’t listening to that part of the meeting. It was very long.”

And, well. She guessed she’d give him that.

She pulled the chattering caravan of elves along into an impromptu tour of the grounds before someone inevitably let slip something damning, and the evening faded into a blur of greetings and introductions. It was a chore just keeping track of them all. Each elf held their own title—hunter, healer, elder, crafter, warleader, designated halla keeper…apparently there wasn’t one _without_ a fixed role. At one point Josephine inquired about Lilith’s title, to which her Keeper answered worryingly with, “ _Well._ Typically our warriors are designated as hunters, or masters, but the position generally requires some sort of apprenticeship. For example, she was supposed to kill and present a beast of the forest by herself to become a fully-fledged hunter.”

“And she did not?”

“She brought back _something,_ but not a beast of the forest.”

“It was a head,” the clan elder curtly supplied. A grim-looking elf in Andruil’s vallaslin. “She brought back a man’s _head_.”

“Which kind of counted,” Deshanna added. “In a way.”

“She was supposed to kill an _animal,_ ” he argued. “A ram, or a wolf, or _something_. Instead she came sauntering into camp with _that_ ghastly thing swinging in her fist!

“A slaver,” Deshanna supplied in defense. “She said, ‘If he wants to act like a beast, he’ll be hunted like one.’” At an exhausted glare from the other, she added, “Technically it was in a forest.”

“It was a _man_ ,” he stressed. “The girl had one job, and she _beheaded_ someone _._ ”

Solas, meanwhile, kept a vigilant lookout for elves with amber eyes and telltale cheekbones. Anyone who looked like they could share the same genetics as Lilith. It shouldn’t have been difficult—her bone structure was unique enough that it should have been easy to spot relatives with similar sharply angled jaws and noses. At the very least the same uneven, freckled complexion. Curiously, though, he found none. A disquieting observation.

He wasn’t sure he had the mental fortitude to survive meeting her parents without warning.

He kept a measured distance, careful to hang back far enough that no one tried to speak to him but close enough to still technically be considered “present.” A more challenging tactic than it sounded. For a while it worked—the rest of Lavellan’s inner circle were all-too eager to provide adequate distraction, and in the whirlwind of friendly greetings, Solas could gracefully duck out without drawing notice. For a while, no one spoke to him.

Alas.

A pair of elven women dashed those hopes when they stopped to stare his way. “You the one that’s taken up with Lilith, then?” one of them asked.

Slowly, he nodded.

She looked him up and down with an unhappy squint before shrugging. “Well. At least he’s an elf. Sort of.”

Ah, yes. That was more expected.

“At least he’s a _he,”_ the other quipped, and the girl just scoffed.

“Oh, please. That’s even worse. The last thing we need’s another one of _her_ running wild out there.” She looked back to Solas with a quirked brow. “…there aren’t, are there?”

“I’m sorry?”

“Babies,” she clarified. “Little Liliths, wreaking havoc on the world. I mean I figured if she had we’d have heard about it by now—birds dropping dead from the sky, rivers probably turning to blood, or something. Wouldn’t expect a _message,_ or course, but. I’m sure a volcano would erupt somewhere.”

“ _Be nice,_ ” the other elf hissed with a sharp jab of her elbow. “You may very well owe her your life.”

“Owe _her,_ ” she snorted. “That’s a riot. Pretty sure she still owes me an aravel. And a husband, but who’s keeping track?”

“ _Elera!_ ”

“Well she _does,_ doesn’t she?” Now named, Elera looked back to him with a pursed frown. “Just keep that in mind, is all I’m saying. Start messing around with that one and you’ll end up with something not-all elf.”

“ _You’re being rude,_ ” her companion unsuccessfully whispered. Louder then, to Solas, “Our apologies, _hahren_. She doesn’t mean it; really.”

 _Hahren._ Ugh. He was so, so very tired of Dalish elves today. But then something struck him. “You think Lilith plans on having _children?_ ”

“Or something resembling them, anyway,” Elera snickered, and earned another jab from her horrified companion.

“It’s not our business,” the other stated. “We’re very happy for her, regardless. Aren’t we, Elera?”

Elera managed a grudging hum of approval.

“Again,” her companion reaffirmed, “very sorry.” With an apologetic nod, she snagged her friend by the arm and ducked into the crowd.

Which was… _odd_.

His next interaction was somehow odder.

Someone else was watching him. Half-hidden in the shadows of the great stone staircase while the rest of the clan socialized far ahead. A young elven man—square-jawed and round-eyed, lips set in a sneer. A mage. “So you’re him?” He glowered at Solas as if staring down an enemy on the battlefield, and said only, “Fitting.”

Solas’ stare decidedly narrowed. “Excuse me?”

“ _Squirrel,_ ” Iron Bull not-that-subtly coughed somewhere behind him, and Solas had to bite the inside of his cheek to keep from opening his mouth.

The elf said nothing. Just shook his head with a dismissive smirk, and was gone.

Odd, to say the least.

Bull murmured something under his breath in passing. A friendly warning. “We’re playing nice, remember?” he said. “For Lilith.”

Solas gave a heated sigh.

Yes. For Lilith.

A few of their residents seemed to have forgotten that Lavellan’s clan actually traded frequently with humans—or else must have forgotten that Dalish elves still speak common tongue. They greeted them in slow, over-enunciated sentences that made the elves exchange baffled glances among them. Still. For all Lilith’s worrying, things were actually going somewhat smoothly. Her clan was polite, and incredibly patient, considering the sheer amount of slack-jawed staring from Skyhold’s less elf-savvy residents. There was talk of travel and weather and the Inquisition’s successes, of their good fortune in Wycome and the peace they helped build. It was…fine, actually. Suspiciously.

Solas noticed Lilith hovered between her Keeper and her companions whenever they spoke. A barrier, constant and guarded. Waiting for…

He wasn’t quite sure what.

After what felt like hours, while Lavellan’s clan settled into their new quarters, Solas finally managed to slip away to the rotunda. The commotion outside left it graciously empty, save a few dedicated researchers still conversing in the rookery. For once the library was near vacant—a rare, blessed state. Solas leaned over the railing, and watched. Waited.

It didn’t take long for Lilith to find him.

She bound up the stairs with a weary smile. “So,” she greeted, “getting along well?”

“Did you steal someone’s aravel?” he asked. “…and husband?”

Lilith only groaned. “Getting along great, then, I see.”

“Your clan seems…” He paused, grasping for the least offensive way to continue. “ _Divided_ on your accomplishments.”

“They’re happy to be alive,” she translated. “Not so thrilled I still am.”

“I’m sure that’s not true.”

“They sent me to the conclave,” she reminded. “I’m expendable, at best.”

“Your Keeper had only glowing praise for you.”

“And you won’t hear anyone else agreeing with her.” She folded her arms with an aggravated huff. “And I didn’t steal it,” she clarified. “I burned it down.”

“…the aravel, or the husband?”

“Both. Separate occasions.”

“Anyone else you’ve grievously offended, by chance?”

“All of them, probably. I guess I should have warned you all of that ahead of time. Honestly, as long as no one gets in a fight I’ll be happy.”

“No one is going to fight your relatives.”

“Probably not,” she agreed. “But not _definitely_ not. I told you, anything is possible—including familial fist fights.”

“Lilith, no one is going to punch one of your clansmen.”

“They might,” she argued. “They just might.”

The creak of an opening door below drove them back into an empty alcove. Dorian’s favorite, coincidentally—with the overstuffed red chair and best view of the courtyard. So he insisted. Lilith waited for the sound of footsteps to abate, careful to keep hidden. “They’ll need me back soon.”

“Soon,” Solas agreed. “But not immediately.”

She looked back at him with gleaming eyes and a smile that’d be the death of him. A terrible, wonderful smile. He kissed her, and for a while forgot about the elves just outside the walls. Forgot a great many things. Which was quite possibly his greatest weakness, he supposed—Lilith had an uncanny habit of making him _forget_.

She pushed him back into the waiting chair; climbed into his lap, knees astride him, and for a moment he forgot why that was a bad idea. But only a moment.

She’d already wriggled one arm out of her armor with impressive speed when Solas had to grudgingly stop her. “Did we not just have a conversation about unwise choices?”

“Come on,” she pleaded, still unsuccessfully trying to wiggle out of her shirt. “I’ve got half an hour tops before I need to be anywhere; slam me up against something before anyone notices I’m missing.”

He moved to still her flailing arms, but his hands fell to her waist and mysteriously stuck. “Now, of all times? Lilith, I am not… Not with your-!” He stopped. “… _are_ your parents here?”

“ _Ugh_.”

“Which ones are you actually related to?”

“It doesn’t matter, because you’ll never see them again anyway.” She sat back on her heels, exasperated. “You realize I’m asking you to fuck me, right?”

“I realize,” he said. “And fully plan to take you up on that offer. But preferably not within earshot of your suspiciously unnamed parents.”

“ _You’re_ suspicious,” she countered. What was left of her blouse fell from her shoulders with a shrug. “And missing out, might I add.”

Yes. Solas could see that.

She surged up to kiss him and was halted in place by a hand laid flat to her forehead. “Your Keeper said you had a type.”

“I do,” she agreed. “Pretty girls and idiot boys, apparently.”

“I was being serious.”

“So was I,” she challenged. “Don’t worry; you’re safe. Cullen’s not dumb enough to be my type.” She leaned in to press a soft kiss to his cheek. “You’re the only idiot for me.”

“Oddly, not a helpful assurance.”

“…what, are you actually _jealous?_ ”

“Of course not.” But the defense came too fast. An embarrassing flash of weaker emotions.

She laughed. “If you’re worried about competition, don’t be. Trust me, no one here likes me that much.”

He thought back to the mage from the courtyard. With the square jaw and round eyes. “Are you quite sure about that?”

“ _Outrageously_ sure.”

“You don’t think rising up as their savior could have sparked some admiration?”

“No,” she said. “It didn’t. Now quit brooding, will you? We may be able to salvage this day yet.”

“I highly doubt that.”

But then she climbed off him. Sank to her knees between his legs and slid wicked hands up his thigh with a slow, sinister grin. “Bet you’re wrong.”

* * *

The banquet that night went about as smoothly as expected.

It was a massive affair. The entirety of Clan Lavellan and far too many others, all crowded into the great hall. Three separate elves inquired about Lilith’s plans for children, much to Solas’ ever-building distress. More troublingly, they all seemed relieved when he said they had none. A good five or six murmured various rude accusations when they thought he couldn’t hear them, and at least two said them straight to his face. Not about _him,_ though, which was the truly bizarre part. No, quite the opposite; their Dalish guests had nothing unkind to say in regards to any of Skyhold’s residents.

But Lilith…

Amid the hum of conversation, he overheard a few… _odd_ comments. Whispered aspersions about their Inquisitor’s fortune, her motives, whatever unearthly stain was on the bottom of her skirt. Someone commented on the suspicious amount of elfroot in Skyhold’s garden, to which another only rolled their eyes and uttered an exasperated, “ _Lilith_.”

All of them wanted to see her marked hand for themselves, which did nothing to help—instead Solas started hearing murmurs of curses and divine punishment, blaming her new power on unseen evils and vengeful gods in low, chuckling voices, as if the whole thing was some sort of joke. As if she deserved the burden.

It was _maddening._

A small fight broke out midway through dinner when someone misguidedly brought up the Empress, which snowballed into a heated political debate with startling swiftness. Eventually the Winter Palace came into play, after which everyone seemed to have an opinion on how it _should have been_ handled. Lilith, still bound and determined not to panic, tried to intervene without exacerbating the situation and somehow unknowingly kicked off an argument on the Orlesian civil war.

She honestly thought the night couldn’t get worse, until one of their human guests got impressively drunk and instigated a minor race war. The dwarven man he’d come in with vehemently denied ever having seen him in his life, which made him very, very angry. And then Lavellan barked his full name from across the room in a furious, booming echo, which made him very, _very_ scared. Leliana snatched him up quick enough, but publicly ejecting someone from dinner was not, surprisingly, a great addition to the evening.

The Dalish insisted they took no offense, and as far as Solas could tell, they truly didn’t. They did, however, snicker something about Lilith. A few joking snippets, caught here and there:

“Keeping only the best company, as usual.”

“You think he forgot she was an elf? Not that it’d be hard to do.”

“I bet there’s a fight before the night ends.”

“I bet she’ll _start_ it.”

And then things got exponentially worse.

Lilith had previously tried to keep the two groups separated—Lavellans and non-Lavellans, safely divided—and utterly, _hilariously_ failed. A Dalish healer sat between Dagna and Minaeve, eagerly nodding along to a story. Two hunters had mixed in with the Chargers at the far end of a dining table, drinks in hand, while Bull loudly recounted his favorite giant-baiting story. _Vivienne_ was conversing with one of their mages, and gods help her, her grim-faced clan elder somehow ended up across from Cullen. Neither looked happy about it.

Lilith looked over the crowd, and realized in a wash of horror that she’d lost her Keeper.

Worse: Dorian and Blackwall had found her. By the time Lavellan’s eyes finally picked her out, Deshanna was already far across the hall, idly chatting with them. Lilith couldn’t sprint fast enough.

“You really must tell us more about her,” Dorian was saying. A dangerous invitation.

“How old she is, maybe,” he heard Blackwall grumble under his breath, and unceremoniously elbowed him.

Deshanna only chuckled. “Surely I could ask the same of you—you probably know more about her than I do by now.”

The two exchanged quick, quizzical glances. “And how is that, exactly?” Dorian ventured.

“Well, we hadn’t seen Lilith in years, up until quite recently. Not until she returned to us shortly before the peace talks, with the offer to act as a spy on our behalf.”

“She _what?_ ” Dorian pressed. “What do you mean you hadn’t seen her? Where in Maker’s name _was_ she?”

“She _offered_ to attend the conclave? You didn’t send her?”

“Exactly how many years are we talking about?”

Deshanna looked genuinely confused. “You didn’t know that?”

In his best imitation of polite disinterest, Dorian answered, “Perhaps she forgot to mention it. I notice she tends to do that quite often.” He shot a devious glimpse Blackwall’s way. “While we’re on the topic of things she’s forgotten…any chance you’d know when her birthday is?”

“That would be hard to say. She was still quite small when we found her. But we’ve always assumed-”

“Found her?” He couldn’t help but cut in. “I’m sorry, found her _where?_ ”

“Ah, I suppose that wording’s misleading—I like to think Lilith came to us.”

“So just to be clear,” Dorian said, “none of the people here birthed her?”

“Well…no.” She looked puzzled. “Has she not mentioned that?”

“No,” Dorian informed with an artificial smile. “It must have slipped her mind.”

“It’s not unusual for the Dalish to take in orphaned children,” Deshanna explained. “Clans rarely cross paths with each other. It keeps us safer, but poses its own problems as well. If ever a clan is attacked, or beset by illness, we have no way of knowing their fate. Survivors are left scattered to the wind. We take in who we can, when we can find them. Really, it’s serendipity we stumbled upon her at all. It’s not often a clan’s destruction leaves anything behind.”

“Sorry, I just want to be sure I’m getting this right—so you _found_ her? Just…in the woods?”

“I…suppose that summarizes it,” she granted.

“And you don’t know where she came from?”

“Well, from other elves, I assume. Do they…not have adoption, here?”

“We do,” Blackwall said. “She’s just never mentioned it, that’s all. Bit of a surprise.”

“A surprise,” Dorian echoed. “That’s one way to phrase it.”

This time it was Blackwall’s turn to jab him. “I’m sure she had her reasons. Personally I’m more curious as to where she was all this time, if not with her clan.”

“A mystery for the ages.” Deshanna laughed. “I’m just glad to finally have her back. Although it’d be nice if something didn’t have to explode to accomplish it.”

Dorian was not at all satisfied by that explanation. “So she was just…gone? Gallivanting off somewhere? For how long, again?”

Lilith swept in like a hawk before her Keeper could answer, interrupting with a very loud and _very_ fake laugh. “ _Alright,_ ” she cut in, “that’s enough family bonding for today, don’t you think? Everyone’s probably very tired from all this traveling and hand-shaking and talking when they shouldn’t be.”

Dorian met her eyes with a steely glare. “Speak of the devil. You know your Keeper was just telling us about your _parents_ -”

“ _Squirrel,_ ” Lilith hissed. A few elves near her stopped to momentarily look around.

Blackwall feigned a cough. “Right. Well then. I should, ah…probably be off. Attending to things.” He offered a polite nod Deshanna’s way. “It’s been an honor, my lady.” He caught Dorian by the coat and pulled him along with him, much to his silent distress.

Lilith mouthed a heartfelt “ _Thank you_.”

Dorian mouthed an equally heartfelt “ _What the fuck?_ ”

Solas, stationed silently behind her, only watched.

Odd, he thought.

Very…odd.

“Alright,” Lilith announced to the crowd. “This has been great, but it’s getting late, and I’ve got pressing matters to attend to. So if you’ll excuse me…” She paused to let Deshanna wrap her in a long hug, then grabbed Solas by the sleeve and hurried off for her chambers.

Solas slowed to a stop before they reached the door. “Perhaps this is where I should wish you goodnight,” he suggested, and it took everything left in him to pull his hand from hers. “Inquisitor.”

Lilith was too tired to be properly baffled. She only sighed, looking defeated _._ “You’re not coming?”

“To your chambers?”

“…yes? I mean, that was the plan. I guess if you really want we can just hang out in the stairwell, but I kind of had my heart set on a bed.”

He cast a quick glance back at the half-full tables of her relatives. “Would that not be inappropriate?”

“Inappropriate?” she echoed. “Sleeping in the same room is inappropriate now?”

“When your family is visiting, yes.”

“Not two hours ago I blew you in the library-”

“ _Phrasing_.”

“…two hours ago I provided mind-blowing oral pleasure in the library,” she corrected. “But _this_ is where you draw the line?”

He’d admit. It took him a second to pin down an answer for that one. He settled finally with, “You were very persuasive.”

“Damn right I’m persuasive.” She hooked a finger into the collar of his shirt and tugged him forward. “Now why don’t we persuade each other from the relative safety of my locked room, hm?”

Well.

As long as she insisted.

“At some point we should revisit phrasing again,” he said, already following her through her chamber door. “I think you and I may have very different definitions of the concept.”

He snuck a hurried look back at the crowded hall, full of watching eyes. The two elven women from earlier were looking at him. Whispering.

He almost considered refusing, bidding a polite goodnight and leaving it at that, but knew alone Lilith would never sleep. That had been a part of the reason he’d started sharing a bed with her in the first place. In the beginning. To make sure she actually laid head to pillow and _slept,_ even if briefly. It was more babysitting than anything else—Lavellan could command an army like a seasoned warrior but she still needed someone to tell her to go to bed at night.

Everyone liked to flash them winks and leering grins whenever they disappeared up to her bedroom together. No one understood that Solas needed to be there to make her _sleep_. That without him she’d while away the silent hours of night wandering through the castle; a phantom leaving half-empty cups of cold tea scattered in her wake. Sometimes she’d lock herself away in the war room, read over new reports and organize the never-ending mess of papers spread over the tabletop. There were a handful of mornings he awoke to find the castle suddenly redecorated. Sometimes she’d just…wander. Aimless.

There were times late at night he just heard her pace. Back and forth, across the stone floor; like an animal in a cage. Those were never good nights.

He awoke to her pacing tonight.

She held a purring cat close to her chest, absently scratching his head as she paced loose circles against a backdrop of weak moonlight. As much as Solas loathed that awful cat (and doubly loathed that awful _name_ ), this was one of the few times he was grateful for it. He noticed she was prone to picking at her nails when restless. He could always gauge how bad a night it was by how jagged her fingernails were the next morning. At least the cat gave her something non-destructive to do with her hands.

She didn’t stop pacing until he laid a hand on her shoulder. “ _Vhenan,”_ he sighed, a tired plea. “You need to sleep.”

“I don’t want to do this anymore,” she said, and the crack in her voice startled him. Had she been crying? “Why don’t we leave? Just…pick up and go, under cover of night. Maybe spend some time in the Emerald Graves. Or _anywhere,_ shit, it doesn’t even matter, just…not here. I don’t want to be here anymore.”

It took him far too long to convince himself not to take her up on that offer. A challenge he was not proud of.

“It’s not that bad,” he lied.

“Not yet. Hence why we should ditch before the _real_ problems start.”

“What is it you think will happen, exactly?”

But she didn’t answer that. Only stared hard out the window, silently contemplating. She clutched Fen tighter. “I don’t know,” she said finally. A decisive verdict. “That’s the problem.”

* * *

Lilith woke with a lazy flutter of eyelids and a long, contented yawn. It was early, still—grey morning light only just beginning to fade to pink. She rolled to lay her head against Solas’ sleeping chest, warm against her cheek, and let her eyes slip back shut with a satisfied hum. She opened them again to find two sets of eyes staring back at her.

Lilith _screamed_.

Solas awoke with a start to a furiously swearing Lavellan, presently bunching sheets around her bare chest. For a second he wasn’t sure what had happened—and then he looked down. Two elven children stared up at him, bright-eyed and giggling.

Solas could only stare back. Bewildered. “Who are _they?_ ”

“Kids!” Lilith shouted. “Little baby people!”

“I see that; _whose?_ ”

“Not fucking mine!”

“Well don’t _swear_ in front of them,” he chastised. “Do you want them repeating that to their parents?”

“ _Why are they here?_ ” she demanded. “ _How_ are they here? That door was locked!”

He fell back into bed with a sigh. “Perhaps you were right. The Emerald Graves should be lovely this time of year.”

“Solas I am about to _lose it,_ whose fucking ghost-children are these?”

“ _Language,_ ” he reminded. “Why not simply _ask_ them?”

Lilith studied the two children as if observing an animal in the wild. A fierce, guarded stare. “Can they…talk?”

At which the one on the left piped up with, “My mum says you’re a witch.”

“ _Oh my god_.” She pointed furiously to the staircase. “You little _gremlins,_ get out of here!”

They scurried down the stairs with a shrill burst of laughter, leaving a fuming Lilith muttering curses under her breath. Faraway they heard the resonating _slam_ of a very much unlocked door.

“You really were serious about the witch rumor,” Solas commented, awed. “...I thought you were joking.”

“My jokes are actually funny,” she defended. “ _This is not_.”

“They’re _children,_ ” he reminded. “They repeat things without understanding them.”

“That doesn’t mean I can’t go punch their mom.”

“Do not do that.”

With a furious groan, she snagged a book from the floor and chucked it at the staircase. For good measure. “Witch, my ass. Ungrateful fucking…ugh.” She sat back with a wounded frown. “I don’t want to be here anymore.”

Solas pulled her back against him, arms linked loosely around her middle, and hummed a dark laugh against the curve of her throat. “I’m sure I could persuade you otherwise.”

“Could you now?” She leaned back with a devious grin. “And does this persuasion involve mild-blowing oral pleasure, by any chance?”

“You’re perfectly aware that is _not_ what I mean when I say you should reconsider your phrasing.”

“Maybe I should just say everything in Elven,” she considered aloud, and twisted back to innocently purr, “ _Rosa’da’din sule emma’sal’in_.”

“Do not say that _anywhere near_ your family.”

Lilith exaggerated a scoff. “Square.”

“Where do you even learn these? Who teaches you?”

“Wait, here, I’ll get more on your level:” She cleared her throat and duly recited, “Graze on my lips, and if those hills be dry, stray lower, where the pleasant fountains lie _…_ ”

“How is that supposed to be my level?”

“Thrice-fairer than myself,” she went on, dramatically addressing the air. “The field's chief flower, sweet above compare-”

He had to duck to avoid grasping arms. “Where are you even getting these from?”

“My superior vocabulary, clearly.”

“Clearly,” he agreed, and caught her wrist just as she moved to grandly toast nothing. “I feel it only right to tell you this is quite possibly the worst redefinition of ‘phrasing’ you’ve managed yet.”

“Well, never let it be said I’m not a woman of many talents.” She pressed closer, amber eyes gleaming. “So, about that demonstration in persuasion…was that still on the table, or…”

“Very much so. Although you should probably lock your door this time.”

“I’m telling you, I _did_ lock it. I think they really might be ghosts.”

“You are not being haunted by spirit-children,” he informed, and Lilith took it upon herself to look personally offended.

“You more than anyone know that weirder things have happened to me.”

And, well. He couldn’t exactly argue that.

This time Solas locked the door himself.

Lavellan laid back against the sheets, haloed by a snowy mess of tangled hair and still giggling through increasingly dirtier Elven commands as Solas trailed slow, savored kisses up the insides of her thighs. His thumb swept over the arc of her hipbone, traced over the crimson trails of her tattoos. She vowed something _obscene_ he could only half translate. A promise or a threat. He hoped, desperately, for both.

He’d just begun working her panties off with his teeth when the telltale creaking of steps froze them both.

Lilith’s head snapped up with a look of sheer terror. “No,” she uttered gravely, eyes still locked with his. “ _No_.”

They both turned, horrified, in time to see two giggling children dash away down the stairs. Moments later, faraway: the resonating _slam_ of a very much unlocked door.

“ _How?_ ” Solas demanded, and Lilith replied with the aggravated insistence, “Fucking _ghosts!_ ”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> lilith you've got some 'splainin to do
> 
> Thanks again to [Project Elvhen](http://archiveofourown.org/series/229061) for figuring out how to say _"cum on my face"_ in elvhen. ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡° ) What a useful phrase to know. (And what a ridiculously helpful resource, hot _damn_.)
> 
> Thank you a million billion times for every single comment, holy shit! I'm stupid into this story and it blows my mind anyone else is even interested. Thank you. ༼ งಥل͟ಥ ༽ง


	5. Chapter 5

Breakfast that morning was a despondent affair. At least for some people. Varric and Blackwall were having quite a pleasant morning, frankly—Skyhold’s cooks had outdone themselves with a lavish spread of Dalish-inspired cuisine—but _others_ …

Dorian sat beside Sera at a long oak table, drumming his fingers against the surface and actively ignoring the pleasant chatter of mingling elves. “Well. This little reunion has just been full of surprises. Lilith’s an _orphan,_ apparently, which is news to me.”

“She told me,” Varric defended, offering a loose shrug across from him.

Dorian shot him a hateful glare. “Why does she tell _you_ everything?”

“I’ve just got that kind of face?” he ventured. Dorian remained staunchly unimpressed.

Sera, pressed to the far end of the table, was fuming. “What the absolute _shit?_ ‘Course she knows all about _me,_ and all my stupid…parent-y…whatever. Meanwhile I’m here looking like a _proper_ arse, still thinking she’s got _parents_. She never even-! _Ugh_.” She crossed her arms with a furious huff. “I made frigging _cookies!_ ”

“I took her to meet my father,” Dorian countered. “…accidentally, but still. She met one of my parents! And _punched_ him! I think he’s still technically banished; I forgot to check. But does she tell me anything about her family? _No,_ why would she do that? I’m only her _dearest friend_ ; why should I know anything about her?”

Sera, still grasping for words, fluttered her hands in an exasperated wave. “And the _cookies!_ ”

“I’m sure she’s got her reasons,” Blackwall piped in to defend. “Leave the girl be. Maker knows she’s got no privacy as it is.”

Dorian just gave a terse snicker. “Well of course _you_ can’t be mad at her. You’ve got that whole not-Warden thing going on. It’d be a bit hypocritical for you to be mad. Isn’t ‘Blackwall’ not even your name?”

“That’s not why,” he defended, but his shoulders may have sunk just that much lower. “I’m just saying. A lady’s got a right to her secrets.”

“Not when she’s keeping them from _me,_ ” Dorian argued, and Sera agreed with a vigorous nod and another jumble of murmured half-curses.

Varric was quick to back him up with an insistent, “No, he’s right. Just because neither of you know how to keep your mouth shut doesn’t mean she can’t.”

“You can’t say anything, either,” Sera defended. “You’re a liar same as him.” She motioned heatedly to Blackwall, then paused to offer an apologetic shrug. “Er, no offense. You’re still alright, Beardy. But, you know. Liars and all.”

“What’s Solas got to say about all this?” Dorian asked. “He must have some thoughts—unless he was one of the elite few to be let in on it, too.”

“He wasn’t,” Blackwall supplied. “And he said, ‘The Inquisitor is entitled to her privacy. I have no input beyond that.’ So. A rational response, then.”

“Rational,” he echoed, derisive. “ _Ha_. That man must be holding onto one bloody big lie, if that’s his input.”

Sera, previously preoccupied carving an angry frowny face into the table with her fork, perked up when she caught a glimpse of Cole across the hall. “Oi, Creepy!” She waved him over. “You’ve been in Lilith’s head. You’d know what else she’s got stuffed away in there, right?”

Cole looked up with a start, eyes guilty hollows. “I…haven’t been that far,” he admitted, and Varric caught a barely discernable wince. “It’s too loud. And…she told me not to root around in people’s heads. That people _talk_ to each other, and ask what’s wrong.”

“Asking’s getting us jack shit,” Sera insisted. “We need your weird ghost-y powers.”

Varric rolled his eyes. “He’s not a ghost, Buttercup, he’s a person. We’re keeping him human, remember?”

“I’m not asking him to frigging _float,_ I just want to know what all he saw.”

And Cole, ever willing to oblige, dutifully responded, “Angry, anxious— _if she lied about this, what else was a lie?_ Afraid of affection you thought genuine, an imagined understanding. You don’t have to be scared; she didn’t lie about that.”

Sera gave a frustrated groan. “Not me, you daft tit! Do _Lilith!_ ”

“Oh,” he said. “Sorry. No.” While Sera dissolved into a grumbling ball of fury, sinking ever-further in her seat, Cole helpfully continued. “Besides, that wouldn’t help her. The hurt doesn’t come from you. But cinnamon tea makes her happy. You could try that?”

Sera’s answer came in the form of a furious _ugh_. “ _Damn it,_ Creepy, that’s not- Why’ve you got to be so _nice?_ ”

“Yeah,” Varric echoed with the shadow of a laugh, “why do you have to be such a helpful and considerate person all the time?”

Cole looked confused. “I’m…not sure how else to be?”

“That’s not what I mean!” Sera shoved herself up, hands slammed flat on the table. “I’m not the only one, you know; Dorian’s mad too!”

At an expectant look from Varric, Dorian gave a grudging shrug. “It would have been nice to be trusted,” he relented. “That’s all.”

“She trusts you,” Cole supplied, “just not herself. Too many ties, like a tangle of webs; weaving, wavering, a thousand tales and twice as many versions to track. If she lets loose one then she might slip another, and then your head would be too loud, too.”

“See, that’s what I was talking about! Do that again, but less…weird. ”

Cole looked skeptically to Varric, who could offer only a tired sort of shrug. “Ignore her,” he advised. “We’re trying to _help_ Killer this week, remember? Arguing over the details of her personal life probably isn’t very helpful.”

A hulking shadow fell over the table at Bull’s approach. He plunked down beside Dorian, promptly snagging a bread roll from his hand just before it made it to his mouth. Dorian watched, affronted, as he disappeared it in two bites. “Are you still going on about this thing with Lilith?” he managed through a mouthful of bread. “Look, she’s the _Inquisitor_ —her entire existence is public record. You ask me, I’m surprised she doesn’t keep more secrets. At least that’d give her some kind of _illusion_ of privacy.” He caught Dorian’s glare just as he swallowed. “…were you not finished with that?”

“Well I suppose I am _now_.”

“We’re her _friends,_ ” Sera pointed out. “What’s she need secrets from us for?”

“Leave it alone,” Bull maintained, voice a low warning. “At least until all the elves are gone. Keep this up and you’ll blow the whole reunion.”

“ _I’m_ not the one’s gonna blow it. My bet’s on mustache, over here.”

Beside her, Dorian looked perfectly insulted. “Me? I am the _picture_ of civility. If anyone’s going to slip up, my money’s on Varric. Maybe Cullen—if only because I’ve never seen a worse poker face in my life.”

“Oh, _now_ we’re talking.” Varric emptied a basket of rolls out and slid it to the center of the table. “Time to make this interesting. What do you say we put up a reward for whoever makes it to the end of this disaster? Five royals each says none of you can go the whole week without ruining this reunion.”

“I was eating those,” Dorian commented with a frown. Then, “…what counts as _ruin?_ ”

“Anything that causes undue embarrassment, distress, and/or harm,” he clarified. “Bodily or otherwise.”

“How do I know if I’ve ruined it?”

“Trust me,” he assured. “You’ll know.”

“Five royals each? Please.” With a smug half-smile, Bull dropped a fistful of coins in. “I’ll double it.”

“Watch it, Tiny—you’re tempting fate.”

“I’m a _spy,_ ” Bull informed. “I think I’ve got this.”

Sera snorted, attention back on her colorful carving job. She added a word bubble to her frowny face. “Didn’t you get sacked from that gig?”

“Well…yeah. But that wasn’t because I was _bad_ at it, I- That’s not important. _I’ve got this_. Trust me.”

“Those sound an awful lot like famous last words,” Varric warned. “I’d be careful, if I were you.”

“Of everyone at this table,” he contended, “who has more experience with Dalish elves? I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but I kind of _employ_ a few elves.”

“Only one of the Chargers is Dalish,” Varric pointed out. “And you literally call her ‘Dalish.’ Like. As her name.”

Sera snickered. “And didn’t she get booted from her clan-thing, anyway?”

“ _It counts,_ ” Bull insisted. “And my bet still stands. Ten royals, and I’ll match anything higher.”

Sera eyed the basket of coins with a glimmer of a smile. “So what happens if more than one of us wins? We gotta split it, or something?”

“If more than one of us wins,” Varric promised, “I’ll pay you myself.”

It took Varric minutes to track down the rest of their competitors—er, _companions_. Cassandra responded to his offer with a sneer and a disgusted “ _Ugh_ ,” but dropped five royals into the basket nonetheless. Cullen, predictably, refused. Something about it being “inappropriate” or “unprofessional,” or something. Thankfully, Josephine was all-too happy to put up a bet for him. Vivienne actually _laughed_ —a rare burst of genuine amusement. She gave ten.

“Awfully confident, Enchanter,” Varric remarked, and her lips pursed in a wry smile.

“Of course I’m confident, darling. I’m _exceptional_.”

Sera added two royals, a button, and a stale hunk of bread she forgot was in her pocket. She borrowed the rest from Dorian. Blackwall reluctantly matched it. Cole asked to join, too, but Varric assured him that wasn’t necessary. “Trust me, kid,” he said. “You’re better off holding on to your coins.”

By the end of his venture, Varric had a basket full of gold and the groundwork for what was sure to be a disaster in the making. He stationed their reward smack in the middle of the table—a gleaming trophy. “One week,” he repeated. “Last one left standing gets the whole pot.”

“Or you can save yourself the trouble,” Bull said, “and hand the gold to me directly.”

Varric just laughed. “Famous last words, Tiny—famous last words.”

* * *

 

God help her, they’d be the death of her.

Lilith was still murmuring curses as she tugged on her only good set of Dalish armor, still stewing in an uneasy mix of fury and despair. Josephine requested she wear something underneath it from now on—a blasphemous request, but one she begrudgingly heeded. Apparently there was some issue taken with how she sat. (“Ladies keep their legs _together_ , mistress Lavellan.”) Lilith was not strong enough to put up an argument right now—although she’d make a note to bring it up at the next war table meeting. Until then, there were a few more pressing matters at hand.

Her friends were going to kill her. Figuratively speaking. Maybe literally, depending on the particular companion. Those awful, well-meaning, deeply caring _bastards_ would be her end, whether they meant for it or not. Cassandra and Blackwall would probably be alright, she mused—they might not actively help her cause, but at least they’d _try_. At this point trying was all she could ask for. Josie and Leliana could handle themselves and Cullen both, and Vivienne—blessed, blessed Vivienne—would be fine. Lilith had it on good authority the Enchanter had tangled with far more delicate foes than a gaggle of elves. The _others,_ though…well.

Sera, bless her, really did try. Lilith could physically _feel_ the nervous tension behind every forced smile; each too-high pierce of laughter. She talked awfully big, but being around so many “proper elves” made her anxious and antsy and self-conscious as _hell,_ and it wasn’t difficult to notice. As much as Sera hoped otherwise.

Dorian, the saint, was already setting up to ruin her, and it’d only been a day. Not on purpose, probably, but _still_. If curiosity killed the cat, it was going to _wreck_ Lilith. She didn’t want to think about how much damage his questions could manage in a week. Cole, meanwhile, apparently thought it was a race: who could devastate her fastest? Not surprisingly, he was winning.

And then there was Solas.

She looked to her favorite apostate, presently redressing, with an expression both fond and horribly, _horribly_ concerned. He noticed.

“Keep frowning like that and those creases will stick,” he evenly noted.

“Good,” she said. “Maybe if I look worried enough people will actually take this seriously.”

“For all the trouble you’re going through, would it not be simpler to send any offending parties away?”

“I told you, you’re not weaseling out of this. I need emotional support. Maybe infantry; we’ll have to wait and see.” She went to grab her boots and was coldly struck by their absence.

Right. The shoe thing.

With a jaded groan, she resigned herself to lacing up hew new foot bindings. Some thin, leather mess that wrapped round and up her calf. She looked down at her exposed toes with a grimace. “I feel naked,” she stated. “And not in the fun way. Do you think Cullen still has my shoes?”

“I will never understand your obsession with _boots_.”

“I kick a lot of things,” she defended, and gave her toes a decisive wiggle. “Personally I’ll never understand your _lack_ of obsession with them.”

“It’s better for-”

“For not kicking,” she finished. “Yeah, I’ve established that.”

“No one said you had to forgo shoes to please your relatives,” he pointed out.

“Of course no one said it; it’s unspoken. I’m trying to give them as little reason to hate me as possible. It’s the little things, you know?”

“I don’t, actually.”

She snickered, but whatever clever retort she had ready dwindled under a crestfallen frown. “Speaking of that… You’re going to hear some things about me. Maybe a lot of things. And they won’t all necessarily be positive. So I just…need you to trust me, okay?”

“More scandalous rumors about witchcraft?” he ventured with a smirk.

But Lilith didn’t laugh. “Scandalous is one word for it, sure.”

“And what about you am I trusting, exactly?”

“That I tell you what you need to know.”

He nodded, but something dark glimmered beneath the careful restraint. “Apparently I didn’t need to know quite a few things.”

“The things you don’t need to know could fill a book,” she said. “Which you don’t need to read.”

“It cannot be that bad.”

She took him by the shoulders, gazing up at him with fixed determination. “Solas. Do you remember when we went to the Frostback Basin, and I fought an Avvar war god? Literally. Physically. He was a dragon. Do you remember how I said that was a good idea? Remember how it _wasn’t?_ ”

“In your defense,” he tried, “you did acquire a rather impressive sword from the ordeal, if memory serves.”

“I did,” she said. “And for the sake of argument, let’s assume every weapon I’ve ever owned was procured doing something incredibly stupid.”

“You aren’t stupid.”

“No, but I sure can do a convincing impression.”

He offered no argument to that particular statement. “You could have told me,” he said instead, gently—a soft reminder. Lilith didn’t have to ask about what.

“I could have,” she agreed. “I didn’t.” Her next words were lower. Quieter. A question she held no confident answer to. “Do you trust me?”

“I do,” he said, and she hoped to god he meant it.

“Good. Keep trusting me. Remember when that woman tossed a glass of wine at you, and I said, ‘I’m gonna fight her,’ and you said, ‘No don’t do that,’ and very tactfully handled it yourself _without_ starting a small civil war?”

He grudgingly conceded. “What about it?”

“I need _that_ Solas. Tactful Solas. Just for the week.”

“I’m always tactful.”

“You always _think_ you’re tactful,” she corrected. “You’re right about half the time. All I’m asking is for a little extra effort.”

“I,” he defended, “am _always_ tactful.”

She made sure to look him straight in the eyes, and politely informed, “You once complimented me by insulting my race.”

“I have never done that.”

“ _‘But you have shown a subtlety in your action; a wisdom that goes against everything I know of your people.’_ That’s what you said. Exactly. Essentially, ‘You’re not all that stupid for a Dalish elf.’ I’d call that pretty tactless.”

“That’s…” He sighed. “You’re taking that out of context.”

“The context was a very backhanded compliment,” she argued. “Which I believe I pointed out at the time.”

“You said, ‘And you’re not that bad for, you know, being _you_.’ Delightful as ever, of course.”

“I work with what I’m given.” She caught him by the cord around his neck—twined it around her finger with a flash and a twirl and tugged him closer with a steadily growing grin. She released him when the faraway creak of an opening door echoed up the stairs. “One sec.”

While Lilith marched down the stairs half-dressed, vowing destruction, Solas couldn’t help but be reminded of some…previous musings. Of giggling elves and talk of children, and a troubling train of thought that left him feeling heavy. He heard the slam of the chamber door followed by a loud, wooden clatter, and moments later Lavellan ascended the staircase with dirty hands and a look of triumph. “Let’s see them get past a _barricade,_ the little monsters.”

But Solas was no longer concerned with locked doors. “You said once that you couldn’t have children,” he noted. “…do you remember that?”

“I did say that,” she agreed. “And, oh, let me check…” With a finger raised for silence, she pressed a hand to her abdomen and feigned deep thought. “Yep. Still true.”

“Your clan seems to think differently.”

She froze, bravado evaporating in a terrible instant. “You talked to my clan about my _baby making_ abilities?”

“No, they-” He let the explanation die away, opting out of repeating the elf’s words and settling instead with, “The topic came up.”

“Well let it drop back down again,” she instructed, words sharpened under an icy sheen. “Maybe I don’t announce every aspect of my life to the world. I’d kind of prefer to keep it that way.”

“They don’t know?”

“You know. I know. Not really anyone else’s business, is it? Now can we get back to how you were talking about my _uterus_ to my _family?_ Because I really feel we should revisit that.”

“That is _not_ what I said.”

“No, but it’s what you were talking about, and I’d really rather you didn’t.”

He almost dropped it at that— _should have,_ honestly—but she stalked off to fuss with some clasp or another on her armor and his curiosity won out. “…but _how_ do they not know? Is that not something your Keeper would be made aware of?”

“Because it’s my body?” she ventured. “Do you assume Deshanna knows which one of my boobs is bigger, too?” The right one, coincidentally. “She’s my Keeper; she’s not my _master_. And that is frankly none of her business.”

“Her role in your life seems a bit more significant than that.”

Something hardened in her eyes when she snapped back to him—a bright and burning glow, like staring down a dragon just before it breathed flame. “Where did you say you were from again?” she tested, and the smile she produced turned decidedly cold. “A small village I wouldn’t have heard of?”

He didn’t answer.

Good.

Armor finally buckled and laced to perfect Dalish standards, she tossed her shoulders back, tilted her chin up, and sucked in a deep, steadying breath. Somewhere far in the back of her mind, in her most hopeful of fantasies, she may have actually felt the slightest touch of _confidence_.

The feeling lasted until breakfast.

Dorian and Sera were the only companions left at a near-empty table near the throne. Waiting, apparently. She’d only just got a pleasant “Morning!” out before Dorian stopped her flat.

“So,” he said, and spread his arms wide in a grand gesture. “Something you wanted to tell me, perhaps?”

Lilith didn’t skip a beat. “Humans could theoretically survive on just potatoes and butter.”

Apparently that fact wasn’t interesting enough. “You told us you lived with your clan!”

“And I did,” she agreed. “…for a while.”

Sera slammed a triumphant fist down. “I knew you didn’t live in the stupid forest! Knew it!”

“I _did,_ ” she insisted, “I just didn’t stay there.”

“Well where were you, then?”

“Places?”

Dorian looked nonplussed. “Are you seriously not going to tell me? You know everything about me! You punched out my _father!_ ”

“So?”

“So? So we’re supposed to be friends, and you didn’t even think to tell me that, oh, your _parents_ were dead?”

“I was…waiting for it to come up naturally?”

Sera cut in, still livid. “I told you about _my_ stupid orphan-y junk; you never thought to say shit about yours?”

“What, and turn it into a whose-parents-were-deader competition? You never asked, and it never mattered enough to bring up.”

“You said your parents _weren’t in contact!_ ” Dorian argued.

“…are they not?”

“Lilith!”

She let a trailing groan fade into what could only be described as a very subdued close-lipped scream. “Didn’t I say I needed to be drunk for this conversation? I feel like I _specifically_ said I’d need to be drunk.”

In reply, Dorian slid her over a brimming mug of ale. “That’s fine,” he said. “I can wait.”

Lilith studied the offering with pursed lips and an exaggerated twinge of disgust. “It’s breakfast,” she noted.

“Ah, right.” In a flash, he switched out the ale for a goblet of wine. “My mistake.”

She stared hard at him for a long stretch of silence before giving a grudging nod.

“Better.”

* * *

 

They made it three full hours before the first of them fell.

Things were going so _well_ —Iron Bull had befriended a handful of Dalish hunters, really nice guys, and the Chargers wasted no time swapping tales and downing drinks in their carved out corner of the tavern. The elves wanted to hear all about Skinner’s time in an alienage; Stitches’ horror stories of their most gruesome battle wounds; Dalish’s old clan. One of them had a great story about a bewitched druffalo that had Rocky bellowing, and between the jokes and refilled flagons of ale, they really seemed to hit it off. Bull couldn’t help but wonder what the hell all the fuss had been about. The Dalish, as far as he was concerned, were _great_.

Things were going pretty well, until Bull casually mentioned that one time he and Lilith plundered an elven tomb together. Wait, sorry, not _an_ elven tomb— _Var Bellanaris,_ the sacred ancestral burial site in the Exalted Plains.

 _The_ elven tomb, apparently.

Admittedly, not his brightest moment.

It probably didn’t help the situation when he responded to their horrified reactions with a panicked, “It’s fine, I don’t think the elves ever found out about it.” Krem blessedly intervened and managed to distract them long enough for Varric to swoop in from the shadows with, “No, no, you’re telling it all wrong—see, we’d been _sent_ there by this Keeper, on account on this problem with demons…”

They bought about half of it. The elves left the tavern with vague suspicions of misconduct, grumbling heated strings of Elven interspersed with the occasional, damning whisper, “ _Lilith_.”

Iron Bull was left with only _horror_.

He watched, blindsided and reeling, as his newfound drinking comrades left to inform the whole of Clan Lavellan that their Inquisitor was a suspected grave robber. Varric hung back for only a moment, still on damage control. “What’d I tell you, again?” he asked, and beneath the mask of exhaustion gleamed the upturn of a smirk. “Famous last words?”

Well _shit_.

Within the hour a whole new hell descended in the form of a small, swearing Dalish girl. Lilith blew into the tavern like an approaching storm; set herself in front of him and leveled an accusing glare his way before promptly demanding, “Why do you hate me?”

Bull was mortified. “I don’t know what happened,” he admitted, still reeling from the shock of it.

“You told a roomful of _elves_ that I _rob elf graves!_ The clan elder just pulled me aside and asked if I desecrated Var Bellanaris! By _name!”_

“I forgot it was an elf thing,” he defended halfheartedly. “We rob a lot of graves; I can’t keep track of all of them.”

A lingering elven couple quickly rushed past, and Lilith’s head fell despairingly into her hands. “How were you ever a _spy?_ ” She looked to Krem with the weary eyes of a battle-worn veteran. “ _Krem_ ,” she pleaded. “Lieutenant of my dreams. My handsome angel. _Please_ tell me you’ve got this.”

“I’ll supervise him myself,” he promised, and tried to swallow down dark laughter. “Apparently he can’t behave himself otherwise.”

“You have both my full authority and full love,” she said. “Thank you, and use whatever means necessary.”

Bull, head still cradled miserably in his hands, only groaned. “I was a _spy,_ ” he insisted. “That was my _job_.”

Krem offered sympathy in the form of a hard slap to his shoulder. “I think the key word there is ‘ _was_ ,’ chief.”

“I can’t believe it was me,” he bemoaned. “I didn’t even outlast Sera; what the _fuck_.” He looked up at Dalish with an expression of utter betrayal. “And where were _you?_ ”

The elf only shrugged. “Not plundering sacred burial grounds, apparently.”

“There were demons!” he defended. “I…! _Ahh_ …”

“You fucked up,” Lilith informed. “You big, horned son-of-a-bitch. You done _fucked. Up._ ”

“There were demons!” he stressed, but the conviction melted into a bitter pool of misery. “I’m supposed to be a fucking _spy!_ ”

“Former spy,” Lilith corrected. “ _Fired_ spy.”

“Bloody awful spy,” Krem added with a low chuckle. Bull looked devastated.

“Is it too late to say sorry?”

“Yes,” Lilith said. “But that doesn’t mean you shouldn’t try.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 01\. [the incident with the wine.](https://youtu.be/CV5I7vcz8u0?t=6m16s) **(video)**  
>  02\. [the lack of baby-making.](http://archiveofourown.org/works/4679195) **(nsfw)**
> 
>  
> 
> also loOOK AT ALL this [amazing fucking art](http://lavellanpls.tumblr.com/tagged/fantastic-art) people have drawn of Lilith, oh my god. I just. (╯｡❤◞౪◟❤｡)╯ _They're all so good; I wanna frame them all holy fuck_


	6. Chapter 6

Bull was the first, but he would not be the last. Sera, honestly, just hoped she wouldn’t be the worst. Making it to top three wouldn’t hurt either. And beating Solas would be _great,_ if she could manage that. The way she figured, Professor Arsehole probably wouldn’t make it another day before feeling compelled to tell _someone_ how wrong they were—all Sera had to do was make it until then. A day, _tops_. She didn’t even have to be good, just…not as bad.

Sera could manage not as bad.

She avoided Lilith’s clansmen, for the most part. She wasn’t sure what else to do. She sure as shite couldn’t _talk_ to them, that’d be…er. Bad, probably. They were nice and all, for elfy-elves, but Sera had butted heads with plenty of “nice” people before, and with a lot less effort. She just…wasn’t good at talking to elves. Wasn’t even good at _being_ one, honestly. Not that she tried. Anymore.

_Not as bad,_ she inwardly assured. _Not good, just not as bad._

The tavern that afternoon was uncomfortably full of Dalish. Despite Lilith’s assurances (“You look like a brilliant, bloody sunflower and I’m _into_ it.”) Sera wasn’t sure how keen she was on sticking out amidst a sea of muted greens. Suddenly she regretted not letting Vivienne dress her.

Stupid friggin elves, she thought miserably.

Stupid friggin _everyone_.

She pressed close to the walls and tried to navigate a path up to her room without drawing attention to herself. Which was a lot harder to do as the only pointy-eared sodder in the room wearing proper shoes.

Friggin _elves_.

Friggin…Vivienne, maybe.

She made it as far as Maryden before a Dalish woman stopped her with a warm hand on her shoulder. “I saw you yesterday,” the woman observed. Her smile was meant to disarm. It didn’t. “ _Serah,_ was it?”

Athera, she said her name was—or maybe Athira, or th…th-something. Sera gave an awkward laugh that hit too high a pitch. She wasn’t sure when she’d started wringing her hands.

“I hear you were one of the ones responsible for rediscovering Din’an Hanin,” Ath-something went on, and Sera was about to vehemently deny it, until she added, “We were overjoyed when we heard! The scrolls you brought back recount such an important part of our history; to finally have that knowledge back in Dalish hands is a blessing.”

Sera inched farther and farther back with each uneasy nod. Before she knew it her back bumped against the wall. “Right. The, um, Knight place. With all the Venatori. So you’re…happy about that, then?”

“We couldn’t be more grateful,” she assured, and that sort of made it worse.

She didn’t even know why she was so nervous. It wasn’t like she’d never met elves before—she sort of _was_ an elf, if she was going to get all technical about it. Elves were just extra pointy people, and there was no wrong way to be _people,_ right? Or. Something. Quizzie never had a problem with her, but then she wasn’t quite a proper elf either, was she? With another nervous laugh, Sera tried to focus on the elven woman speaking to her while frantically rifling through her scattered knowledge of the Dalish.

What was it again? Atheria? _Shit._

The elfy lady mentioned something about how _important_ it was, the Inquisition bringing attention to Dalish lore and all, and with the perfect opportunity in sight Sera eagerly responded, “Oh, yeah, Lilith’s all _about_ elfy stuff! Always going on about those…stories, and history. Oh, she does this thing, right?, where you ask her ‘bout some big legend or fight or something and she’ll sum up the whole thing in six words or less! You know, for, uh, education. For teaching purposes.”

That actually sorta-kinda helped, maybe. The woman gave a nod and a smile, and Sera, gaining confidence, made a grave mistake. She kept talking. “Yeah, she’s good at it, too. Showed me how to write my name in proper Elvish once. Weird-looking, right? All pointy lines and squiggly bits. Dunno how anyone ever used to read that stuff.” Her laugh slowly died when she realized the woman had stopped smiling.

Well _fuckall_ kinds of fuck.

“She did _what?_ ” the woman demanded, and the soft lines of her face turned livid.

Sera panicked. “I mean…uh…not that. Obviously. Something else, right? So it’s- uh. What I meant was, I…I’m drunk?” She furiously backpedaled, and from across the tavern Blackwall swept in with a hasty shout of “ _Squirrel!_ ” to rescue what was left of her.

He managed to cut in with a polite “ _Lady Lavellan,_ ” and made up some quick rubbish about someone outside needing her urgent attention. Athi-who thanked him and rushed off, and Sera, still frozen to the wall, crumbled.

“I’ve ruined it,” she said, and sincerely wanted to cry. Maybe started to, a little bit. Horrified, she wiped at her eyes and swore. “Shit. _Shit!_ ”

“You didn’t ruin it,” Blackwall reassured. “Although telling her you were drunk probably didn’t help.”

“ _I panicked!_ I don’t even know what the wrong part was; I thought it sounded good!” She groaned, sliding woefully to the floor. “This is why I don’t talk to elves.”

Blackwall tried to give her shoulder a reassuring pat, and instead sort of awkwardly nudged her. It didn’t make her feel better. “Well, whatever it was,” he reasoned, “it can’t be as bad as Bull.”

A judgement that may, in retrospect, have been preemptive.

Lavellan wasn’t angry when Sera burst into the war council with the wailing confession, “ _I don’t know how but I’ve fucked it up._ ” She listened to the entirety of her jumbled account of events without the slightest crease of a frown. Nodded and shrugged at all the right moments, understanding. She actually seemed sort of okay, until Sera breathlessly finished and she responded with the two worst words Sera ever heard:

“Oh. _Babe_.” Lilith groaned. “Clan Keepers are supposed to be the only ones who know the ‘secret’ of writing Elven. I’m not even supposed to _know_ it, let alone teach it to my friends.”

“Well…but…” Sera made a frustrated noise, words having betrayed her. “Why the shit do you even _know_ some stupid forbidden language?”

“Because I’m an idiot,” she answered. “A big, bilingual idiot.”

Sera was beside herself. “Shit! Stupid Athi-whatsit…elfy-lovin... _piss_. I ruined it! I didn’t even have to be _good_ and I still ruined it!”

“You didn’t ruin it,” Lilith comforted. “Bull fucked up pretty bad, too.”

“Is this worse than his?”

“Well…‘worse’ is kind of a subjective term, don’t you think?”

And yeah, alright—so that time she may have actually cried for real. Just a little.

It was all so _stupid_. Normally she didn’t give an elf’s leafy arse about people not liking her—old news, blah, blah—but… But this wasn’t about her; she’d made them not like _Lilith,_ and that was _wrong_ , because of all the stupid elves in her life she was probably her stupid favorite. Sera knew what it felt like to be made to feel _other_. Lilith didn’t deserve that kind of noise. She remembered how royally pissed Ath-y-who had looked, like Sera had just slapped her across the face, and felt for a moment Dorian may have been right. She certainly _felt_ ten years old.

Blackwall later assured her, with a much more successful sympathetic pat, that he’d cover her drink tab for the rest of the week. Sera—face buried miserably behind balled fists—gave a grateful-sounding sob. He took it as a thank you.

“You meant well,” he defended. “And that’s…mostly what matters.”

Varric would later burst in to interrupt their pity party with the complaint, “Hey, geniuses. Next time you send a woman out to meet someone, you should probably make sure there’s actually someone out there to _meet her_. She tried talking to Seggrit. You know, blond, ex-shopkeep? Kind of racist, especially against _elves?_ ”

“Please don’t tell me-”

“I took care of it,” he said. “Told her I wanted to include a ‘Dalish perspective’ in my new book and needed someone to interview, and long story short, I guess she’s in my next book now. So. That’s…that’s something new, I guess.” He looked to Sera, still sniffling, and noted the line of drinks in front of her. “Oh, Buttercup.” He winced. “ _Already?_ ”

“I ratted her out for knowing some dumb dead language.”

“It was an honest mistake,” Blackwall defended. “You were trying to help.” While Sera groaned into her cup, he silently waved to the barkeep for another round. “It wasn’t _that_ bad.”

“If it’ll make you feel any better,” Varric offered, “you should hear what Cassandra just did.”

* * *

 

Cassandra blamed herself.

Also a few other people, but chiefly _herself_. She didn’t see how it happened—a servant, a lost guest, one of those awful little lock-picking children—but someone, somehow, left Lavellan’s chamber door open, and now the cat was gone. Cassandra was quick enough to spot it just as it darted for the main door, a scraggly flash of black, but not quick enough to catch it. Instead she watched, hissing curses under her breath, as the damned little monster scurried down the steps and right up into a tree.

Cassandra stood below, glaring up into the branches. “You little _shit,_ ” she swore, voice hushed. Balanced contentedly just out of reach, the cat looked down and slowly blinked. Cassandra gave a disgusted huff.

“ _Cat,_ ” she whispered. “Get down this _instant_.” When that didn’t work, she resorted to more desperate measures. In her best imitation of sweetness, she called a hushed, “Cat. _Kit-ty_. Here, kitty! Kitty...cat…cat? Jump down! Come- _Ugh,_ you little beast!” She cast a wary glance around the courtyard, and with no elves in sight, whispered, “ _Fen’Harel_.”

The cat looked down, tail twitching.

“Come here,” she coaxed. “Here, cat, down…cat! _Cat!_ Would you just- _Fen’Harel!_ ”

He turned his wandering attention back to Cassandra, golden eyes decisively narrowing. She called his name again, louder, and he rose lazily to stretch.

“Good cat,” she whispered. “Very good; now come, to me! Fen’Harel! Here! Fen-”

And then she heard a terrible sound. A voice, startlingly close behind her: “Is that Lilith’s cat?”

Cassandra spun back, wide-eyed and guilty, to face a frowning Dalish woman. The elf crossed her arms, starkly displeased. “Did she name it _Fen’Harel?_ ”

“No,” Cassandra lied. “Its name is…something else.”

“Well what’d you just call it, then?”

“…not Fen’Harel?”

At which point the little beast decided to leap down and weave, purring, through Cassandra’s legs.

Typical.

She snatched him up in a flash, but the elf just sighed. “Oh, _Creators._ Of all the stupid things to do…no wonder the sky’s torn open, she probably went and pissed him off. Her and her creepy _pets,_ I’ll never understand _…”_

“It is not creepy,” she said. “He’s a very nice cat.” The elf reached tentatively to pet him, and Cassandra jerked him out of reach just as he loosed a long, low growl. “ _But don’t touch him_.”

“Right,” the woman said. “Of course. And where’s she keeping the herd of deepstalkers at these days?”

Cassandra jumped to her defense. “No, no, she got rid of those! And it was hardly a herd; I believe she started out with only three, or…or…”

It took her until the second “or” to realize the elf had been joking. And it took _her_ even less time to realize Cassandra wasn’t.

She scoffed. “Wait, you mean she actually _did?_ Deepstalkers? Creators’ _mercy,_ what horrid thing is that little witch going to latch onto next?”

Cassandra panicked. “Wait. No. That was not… I was joking. An inside joke. It’s funnier if you are, well…inside.” Running out of options, she looked for any nearby allies to aid her and called out a helpless, “Squeril?”

She would admit she was not shocked when no answer came.

* * *

 

Lilith perched on the edge of Solas’ desk, legs crossed at the knee. A precarious position, in Dalish dress. With the midday sun shining warm outside, most of her clansmen had wandered off to explore the grounds, leaving a precious opening of peace and quiet before some new disaster called her away. She resolved to take full advantage of it.

Solas insisted he had important work to do—some pressing ancient texts to study, or glyphs to translate. Lavellan suspected he just wanted an excuse to hide indoors. She shifted position, slyly refolding her legs, and Solas actively tried to keep his eyes on his book. “You know, we never did finish what we started this morning.”

Yes. He was keenly aware. Against all better judgement he let his hand wander to her knee, touch gliding just barely higher. “Perhaps it would be possible to resume elsewhere,” he suggested. “…a more _secure_ location, this time.”

She leaned into him, smile turned devious. “Sneaking around, are we? How _illicit_.” And something about the way she hissed the word stirred warmth in his chest. If it was _illicitness_ she preferred… Well. He caught her by the chin and tilted her face up, thumb ghosting over the curve of her bottom lip.

Then Cassandra burst through the door shouting a panicked “Inquisitor!” and Solas jerked back so fast Lilith lost balance and toppled. She glared up at him from the floor. “ _Seriously?_ ”

Cassandra was frantic—insistent she’d made a terrible, terrible mistake—but Lilith took in her story with only a shrug and a defeated nod. “Yeah,” she granted, “that was probably bound to happen at some point.”

“I’ve failed you,” Cassandra bemoaned.  “Betrayed by that stupid _cat_.”

“Well he can’t be that stupid. I mean, he comes to his name, apparently.”

“I cannot express how sorry I am.”

“Don’t be,” she consoled. “Honestly, this is not the most sacrilegious thing I’ve done. I doubt anyone’s surprised. Compared to some of today’s other… _mishaps,_ this really isn’t the most damning.”

“They accused you of angering the gods.”

“Yeah, they do that a lot.”

She covered her face and deeply sighed. “I may also have inadvertently told them you collected deepstalkers.”

“Oh, Cass,” she lamented. “That’s…a little more your fault than the first one.”

Cassandra wasn’t sure she’d ever felt more useless. “I couldn’t even say _skwerl_.”

“You’re saying it just fine,” she comforted. “That’s exactly how it’s pronounced.”

“ _It is not_.”

“It can be.”

Maker guide her—it was only the second day. “I am so sorry. Truly. I…the Dalish are very _quiet;_ I never heard her approach.” Then, with a furious growl, “I am going to skin Fen’Harel alive.”

Solas gave a brief, bitter laugh. “I believe there’s a line.”

* * *

 

News spread fast in Skyhold. Especially when Varric personally spread it. With three of their cohorts already fallen, it was time, Dorian decided, for more desperate actions to be taken.

“I’m implementing a buddy system,” he explained. “Congratulations. You are now my ‘buddy.’”

Blackwall didn’t argue with the announcement; just sighed and played along with an obligatory “Why?”

“Safety in numbers?” he guessed. “A combined force of will? A witness, in case of sudden death?”

“And you want _me?_ ”

“No,” Dorian admitted, “but everyone I wanted has already proved themselves incompetent, apparently.” Also Madame Vivienne declined. Her loss.

For a while, that plan seemed to work. Say what they would about Blackwall— _Thom?_ Was he supposed to call him _Thom_ now? Ugh, he’d rather not.—but he _was_ oddly charming for a man they found wandering the forest. Or at least inoffensive enough to pass for charming; Dorian could do the rest. Elves may not have been his most well-versed subject, but he was _damned_ good at improvising. And then he discovered, much to his delight, that Dalish elves disliked Orlesians, and suddenly victory shone that much brighter in the distance.

Between Blackwall and their elven guests, Dorian was relatively certain they could sail through the next month on complaints about entitled nobles alone. It was a miracle. A blessing. A very good plan, if he did say so himself. Separate they were mostly terrified, but together they were _appropriate_. They were _polite_. And they were _not going to blow this_.

It lasted an hour.

In his defense, it started off rather well. Dorian spotted a wandering elf just as he peeked through the door to the undercroft, and Blackwall caught his attention before he could further investigate and discover their human blacksmith with an _incriminating_ amount of ironbark. Velriel, he introduced himself as—Clan Lavellan’s warleader.

He and Blackwall got to talking about swords, because _of course_ they did, and in a flash of brilliance, Dorian thought of the perfect distraction. “Have you had an opportunity to peruse Skyhold’s armory yet, per chance?”

Dorian happily escorted their new friend to the armory. Offered to show off some enchanted elven shield or another they’d stumbled upon while exploring the Temple of Dirthamen. Which seemed a brilliant idea, at the time. They’d amassed an impressive collection of elven weapons during their travels, and Lilith, ever adverse to wasting weaponry, kept all of them. Swords, daggers, fabled longbows… Velriel was positively _ecstatic_ over a dusty bow they’d picked up in the Frostback Basin—something to do with the Emerald Knights, Dorian wasn’t sure.

The elf strolled along a line of polished weapons with an appreciative nod. He stopped at a familiar curved greataxe. “Whose axe is this?”

“Lilith’s,” Dorian answered. “Specially crafted and everything. She’s actually started working with our blacksmith herself, you know—crafts all _sorts_ of things. She’s very keen on dragon bone at the moment. Truly, she’s quite talented.”

He squinted sideways at an inscription on the handle. “It says ‘Cunt Destroyer.’”

“…silly me. That one’s actually mine. Lilith’s, ah, got one just like it, but…named something else.”

“Aren’t you a mage?”

Dorian looked to his companion with desperate, pleading eyes, and in response Blackwall graciously covered with, “It’s a…magic axe?”

Dorian looked personally betrayed.

“Right,” Velriel said. “Lovely. The Dalish champion, representative of all elvenkind—the _cunt destroyer_. That’s just… Typical; it’s typical, is what it is. _Mythal’enaste,_ can that girl take nothing seriously? Oh, just wait until Roshan hears about this…”

Blackwall motioned desperately for Dorian to _say something,_ anything, and in a panic he tried falling back on their only confirmed safety net. “So. Those Orlesians sure are…something.”

Let it never be said that Dorian was without flaw.

There wasn’t much to be done after that. Rather than make it worse they hastily retreated—a unanimous decision made after a very long and very excruciating silence. Once mercifully clear, Dorian pinned Blackwall with an exhausted glare. “You, my friend, may just be the worst liar I’ve ever seen. How did we not realize you weren’t really a Warden?”

“Been wondering that myself,” he admitted. “Bit of a misjudgment on your part, if you ask me.”

“‘ _Magic axe.’_ Maker, take me now.”

“I’ll admit, I may have panicked.”

“I’ve watched you fight a dragon! _Three!_ Three whole dragons! Yet _inquisitive elves_ are what spook you?”

“In my defense,” he tried, “dragons aren’t related to Lilith.”

And, alright. Dorian supposed he’d let him have that one. They flipped a coin to decide which of them had to break the news to Lavellan. Dorian lost. A pity. She took it about as well as he expected, which is to say Not Very Well. Although perhaps not as badly as he feared.

She banged her head against the nearest wall to a mantra of “ _Fuck. Fuck. Fuck_.”

“Maybe expletives aren’t the best choice in this situation,” Dorian pointed out.

“Frick,” she corrected. “Frick, frick, _frick_.”

“Lilith I am _so_ sorry-”

“It’s fine,” she cut in. “Fine. Everything’s fine. _Fine,_ fine. It’s all…just… _fine. So. Fine._ ”

“I broke her. Maker help me, I broke her.”

Shifting nervously behind him, Blackwall forced a cough. “Well. I…may have had a hand in that as well.”

“ _We_ broke her,” Dorian corrected. “Yes, that makes me feel much better. _Fasta vass,_ Lilith, why do you have to name all your bloody weapons in the first place? Is ‘comically oversized axe’ not descriptive enough?”

“Because they’re special! And I get very attached to them!” Suddenly she froze. Looked up with a wild stare, and in a panic asked, “ _Where’s my hammer?_ ”

The color steadily drained from Dorian’s face. “Oh. Oh, no.”

“What?” Blackwall asked. “What hammer?”

“Her _hammer._ ” Dorian grabbed him by the shoulders, full of dread. “ _Where is Nut Crusher?_ ”

The answer was, unfortunately ‘in the armory.’

And yes. Velriel found that, too.

* * *

 

Their week had only just begun, and Solas was already emphatically _done_ with this reunion. He had no interest in socializing with her clan. Lilith was the only Lavellan he cared about, and frankly her qualifications as a Dalish elf were debatable, at best. Managing not to upset her family would not be difficult, as he had no plans to speak to them. For as long as he could, if at all possible.

Perhaps an unrealistic goal. His peace lasted all the way until sundown. He’d managed to sneak out of the rotunda without notice, but unfortunately hadn’t been prepared for the herd of Dalish congregating at one of the long tables in the hall. They waved him over with enthusiastic greetings, and for all his cleverness Solas couldn’t think of a single decent excuse to run. He scanned the gathering of elves for familiar faces, and was happy to find none.

The interaction was…pleasant. Suspiciously. They mostly just wanted news of the war—where was safe, who was liberated, what was still under siege. Wycome had been peaceful, ever since Lavellan removed the corrupt Duke from power and gave rise to their new council. They were glad to hear the Inquisition brought order to further reaches as well, and gladder still to hear the news from an elf. Which was not a sentiment Solas had been expecting—at least not directed at him.

The Dalish were so rarely entangled in human affairs, it was…refreshing, in a way, to hear them voice concerns for worldly politics. If they cared at all for Solas’ own background, they certainly did not show it. From what he could tell, they were just happy to still live.

He would admit. He’d felt…relieved, when none of Lavellan’s clan pressed for details of their relationship. That was not a discussion he’d been looking forward to. To find it conveniently avoided was a small grace. At first, he was only quietly thankful. He wanted nothing more than to never have that conversation. For as long as he could, he wanted to keep Lilith _his_. No one’s herald, no one’s duty-bound champion. No earthly binds to tie her elsewhere. Just…his.

Only his.

But then someone said an awful thing, and he no longer felt grace.

“If you ever need anything,” one of Lavellan’s clansmen warmly assured, “you have our aid.”

And that was rather sweet, if unexpected. He offered his thanks. Genuine, for once.

A woman took him by the arm and beckoned him closer. One of their healers. “If you ever need help with…preventing any _accidents,_ we have methods.” She gave the offer with such soft assurance that for a moment he didn’t understand what she meant. _Accidents?_ What manner of…?

“I’m sure you’re very careful,” she went on, “but there’s no such thing as too safe. Especially when it comes to _children_.”

Ah. _Accidents._

That was less sweet.

The woman laughed, and Solas could think of nothing he wanted to do less. He pulled his arm away a touch sharper than he intended. “Yes. Of course. And what if Lilith has plans for otherwise?” She didn’t, of course. He didn’t.

Still.

She didn’t pick up on the subtle prickling of indignation beneath his words. For the best, probably. “Oh,” she comforted, and the rest was said with a smile and a sureness that cut. “You don’t want that.” For a moment he almost took it personally. Was it some remark on him? Some Dalish prejudice? But then she followed it up with a low-spoken assurance that made it wholly worse. “Not with _her,_ you don’t.”

Solas could think of no response without malice, and so said nothing. A steady theme for the day. _Tactful Solas,_ he reminded. He was _Tactful Solas_ this week. He politely excused himself with some lie about pressing duties, and they bid farewell to him with waves and smiles. Somehow that only made him angrier.

_Not with her._

He didn’t understand. They were Dalish, were they not? Didn’t they _want_ more elves to bolster their numbers? He looked across the hall to where Lilith emerged from the undercroft, arms full of scrolls. She paused in the doorway to call something back to Dagna—busy, always _busy_ —and Solas felt his tactful mask slipping.

They had no right to disparage her. No right to _laugh_. This was the woman who faced down her own death to give Haven’s townsfolk time to flee; freed slaves from Venatori hands and offered them safe refuge behind Skyhold’s walls. Solas stood by her side while she personally trekked across Thedas on hell-bent rescue missions, ferrying medicine, hunting down food for refugees, defending homesteads from bandits… She was their savior; their tireless advocate in a world torn asunder, and Solas did not understand. There was nothing wrong with her. She didn’t deserve this kind of disrespect, this whispered mocking behind her back. Didn’t deserve-

Tactful, he reminded. He must be _tactful_.

At the far end of the hall, a familiar elven man strolled Lavellan’s way. Round eyed and square jawed. A handsome mage in Dirthamen’s vallaslin. He slowed to an easy stop before her, and Solas saw her entire demeanor shift. The muscles in her jaw tightened, lips drawn into a grimace. They exchanged words, but he could not hear them.

Perhaps he was not done speaking to elves quite yet.

He approached slowly. Listening. The mage said something in a low, jeering murmur, and he watched Lavellan’s face steadily sour. “ _Vhen_ -” Solas cut himself short. “…quisitor.”

She looked up with a curiously arched brow. “Sorry?”

Behind him, he heard a confused elf whisper, “What’d he call her? _Vanquisher?_ ”

“ _Lilith,_ ” he clarified. He snuck a piercing glance at her new companion. “Forgive me. I hope I haven’t interrupted.”

“No,” she said. “We were just catching up.”

The mage smirked. Apparently that was quite funny. “Stories of your Inquisition have spread awfully far, _Inquisitor,_ ” he commented, and Solas did not like the way he spit her title. “I wonder how long it’ll take for stories of _you_ to come to light. How was Halamshiral, by the way? Orlais still to your liking?”

She did not answer. Curious.

“I would have loved to see it, personally,” he went on. “I’m sure Deshanna would have too. But then again, if Deshanna got what she wanted, you’d have never been at the conclave to begin with, right?”

“No.” She kept her face impassive. “You would have been there, and we’d all be long dead.”

“Not all of us,” he informed. “Maybe just you.”

Lilith accompanied an eye roll with a raised middle finger. “Eat a dick, Mahanon. The only things you missed out on at the conclave were an assload of spiders and one nasty explosion. Trust me, you got the better deal.”

“Because having your own castle is quite the burden, isn’t it?” He sneered. “At least if I’d been at that conclave instead of you, we’d have a _real_ elf leading Thedas.”

While Solas silently seethed beside her, Lilith only laughed. “You’d have a real _something,_ alright. Ah, but where are my manners. Solas, this is Mahanon,” she introduced. “He’s garbage. Mahanon, meet Solas. He’s better than you. Not unlike most people, animals, and other beings of varying sentience. Also the occasional rock.”

Mahanon gladly ignored her. “First to Clan Lavellan,” he corrected, and snuck a pointed sneer Lilith’s way. “Future Keeper.”

“And present asshole,” she added.

Solas swallowed back disgust. A formidable effort, considering. “We met. Briefly.”

“So this is today’s special interest, then?” He made the motion of a smile, but without warmth it was only a baring of teeth. “At least he’s not one of the People, I suppose. Creators know you’ve taken enough from us as it is.”

Solas felt a very curious urge to take Mahanon’s face and remove it from his skull. Alas—a fleeting desire. “Your Keeper has spoken quite highly of your clan’s position in Wycome. I take it your newfound political power is treating you well.”

“It’s a step,” he granted, reluctant. “Not sure why it took so long for the Inquisitor’s _own clan_ to get any attention, but better late than never, I suppose.”

“ _Right,_ the world’s under attack by a giant, immortal death-wizard and, silly me, I forgot to pay attention to _you_.” She laughed, but Solas heard only bitterness. “I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but I’ve kind of got an Inquisition to run. A massively _successful_ Inquisition. So forgive me if I’ve been too busy saving the world to heap praise upon you.”

“And such an outstanding job you’re doing of it, too,” Mahanon quipped. “Thanks to your valiant efforts, Thedas is now free of demons. _Oh,_ but wait…! No it’s not.”

Solas already had some very choice words lined up in defense, but someone else stole his moment. The door to Josephine’s office slammed open, and out stormed Cullen, a furious Ambassador trailing close behind. His words carried through the great hall in an echoing boom. “I will not apologize!”

Mahanon’s smirk sliced like a knife. “Truly,” he marveled. “Outstanding.”

Lilith heaved a tired sigh; let her fists ball for a split second, and evenly asked, “What happened?”

Josephine answered first. “He _threatened_ your clan!”

“I didn’t…!” Cullen sighed. “It wasn’t meant to be a threat. But if you think I’ll apologize to that…that _man,_ then you are _fantastically_ mistaken, Ambassador.”

Mahanon said nothing. Just smiled, and looked slowly to Lilith. She ignored him. “What _happened?_ ”

“He threatened to eject your clansmen from Skyhold,” Josephine summarized.

“I did not! I simply _reminded_ him that he had no obligation to remain here, and if he _wished_ to leave, our gates would be open.”

“ _Cullen!_ ”

“No, but- he was…it was slander, and there’s no place for it in Skyhold. I don’t care if he’s a Lavellan, he had no right!”

“What’d he say?” Lilith asked.

“I…! What?”

“What’d he say?” she repeated.

Cullen looked ashen. “Oh. Well. I, ah…yes, well you see, there was…um. I...I’d rather not. It was…personal.” At Josephine’s incensed glare, he added, “Inquisition business.”

Lilith’s stare finally snapped to Mahanon. “Don’t you have somewhere to be? Why don’t you go slither back to your burrow, or…cave, or whatever gross place you thrive in. Bog, maybe?” She shooed him off as if scattering rats. “I’m sure someone somewhere is missing their evil twin.”

The elf left with a nod and an insufferably smug grin. No doubt to spread word. Finally alone, she turned her scorching gaze back to Cullen. “You picked a fight because you were _offended?_ ”

“No! No, of course, I-” He broke under a withering glare from Josephine. “…it was about you. A remark was made about you.”

“Wait, what?” Lavellan’s manner changed, the tight line of her jaw softening. _Surprised_. “…you’re mad because he said something about _me?_ ”

“As the figurehead of this Inquisition, insult against you carries far more weight than you may know. We can’t have people… _besmirching_ your name; it’s simply bad politics. Even family, that just-”

“So what’d he say?”

“It was a flippant comment. I…don’t even remember what it was anymore. Only that it shouldn’t have been said.” He ran a hand anxiously back through his hair, gaze stuck to the floor. “I apologize, Inquisitor. I acted rashly. It will not happen again.”

The burning fury building behind her eyes abated, doused by a weak smile. “No, that’s…actually really sweet. Thanks for the good intention.” She landed a play-punch to his arm. “Good job, kiddo.”

“I’m older than you,” he noted.

“You’re somebody’s kiddo. Proud of you.”

“That’s…” His sigh melted. “Thank you. But this may be a problem. It seems my ill-spoken _reminder_ may have upset your clan elder.”

“Roshan? He’s always upset with me; don’t lose sleep over it.”

“But-”

“Deshanna will diffuse it,” she promised. “Trust me. She’s had a lot of practice. But for future reference, just…try and play nice. Alright? If I need someone to be offended on my behalf, I’ll call on you first.”

“Of course,” he acquiesced. “…again, I…I’m terribly sorry.” He offered a shallow bow, but Solas saw no trace of regret in their commander’s eyes. Only quiet rage, carefully repressed.

It was perhaps the most he’d ever admired the man.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Trainwreck ahoy!_ CW for a little light drug use and sexytimes (although not necessarily in that order). Damn dirty kids and a lot of shade. General dickery. Questionably responsible alcohol use. Some really rude people. That sort.
> 
> No one quite rips ya down like family. :^)
> 
> (also REALLY LONG CHAPTER wo w)

Cullen could honestly say that he’d tried his best. Put forth his most valiant effort, and with the noblest of intentions. He’d lost sleep frantically rifling through books on Dalish customs, trying to the absolute best of his ability to _do this right_. His initial meeting with Lavellan’s Keeper hadn’t gone exactly as planned, no, but perhaps now that he’d already embarrassed himself he could take the rest of the week easier. Clan Lavellan seemed to approve of him so far, and really, weren’t first meetings always the worst part of these sorts of things? Cullen wasn’t a perfect diplomat, perhaps, but he was likable enough. He’d _studied,_ even.

He meant well. Truly.

Then he opened his big, stupid mouth.

He made it all the way through to early evening without a single incident. The sun had just begun to sink below the craggy horizon when he was approached by a lost elven couple in search of the mage tower. Cullen paused to offer directions and ended up in a remarkably pleasant conversation. They recognized his name, they said—the same commander Cullen who’d been part of the Inquisition’s rescue efforts in Wycome, yes? He waved their outpour of thanks away with a sheepish smile.

“Lilith orchestrated everything,” he insisted. “I only followed orders.”

“You saved our clan,” the woman said. “A cause few humans have ever cared for. Orders or not, we remain grateful, nonetheless.”

Her companion agreed with a brisk nod. “We met a recruit of yours, Loranil—I must admit, I was surprised to see one of the People among the Inquisition’s ranks. He had much to say about you, Commander.”

Cullen gave an anxious laugh he hoped to pass off as lighthearted. “Only good things, I hope.”

“Positively _glowing,_ actually,” he affirmed. “Although I should expect no less. Tales of the Inquisition’s efforts precede it. Not to alarm you, but you’ve garnered quite a reputation as an ally of elves.” His easy laugh was a welcome sound. “Just be careful the Chantry doesn’t catch wind of that.”

Right. Of course. On account of the Exalted Marches, and the like. Cullen had dutifully prepared for this. “At this point I’d be more worried if the Chantry _didn’t_ openly denounce us.”

They both laughed.

 _Success_.

They asked a few friendly questions about the troops, of their stabilizing presence in the Exalted Plains, and seemed wholly satisfied with his answers. “I’ve heard far too many stories of elves meeting unlucky ends in the Plains,” the woman said. “ _Elgar’nan enaste,_ I thought the land would burn up before it ever saw peace again.”

 _Elgar’nan,_ Cullen thought. Yes. An elven god. Er, one of them. The…sun one, wasn’t it? He’d memorized these. Confidence slowly gaining, he made some comment or other about her vallaslin—Mythal’s, yes?—and she seemed positively delighted in his interest.

“I’m surprised you recognize the patronage,” she said. “I meet very few outside the Dalish who bother to learn the difference between our gods.”

“I’m afraid I don’t know all of them,” he admitted. “But I know Mythal. Lilith has the same ones.”

Suddenly she was no longer delighted. Her smile fell. “They’re not the same,” she snapped. “Is that what she’s been going around saying? That she wears Mythal’s vallaslin?”

Whatever victory he felt shrunk away in an instant. “ _No,_ no, Lilith never talks about elven gods. I mean, not _never_. Frequently, but- Ah...normally. A normal amount.” Cullen was aghast. “I’m terribly sorry, I never meant to offend. I…obviously know far less than I previously thought.”

Her flash of fury dwindled, her frown sympathetic. “Oh. No, no, I should be the one apologizing—you’ve done nothing wrong. I’m sorry, it’s just…” She folded her arms with a fretful sigh. “Vallaslin is important to us,” she explained. “They’re not just _tattoos._ And _she…!_ Lilith just knows better. It’s not your fault.”

“I’m sorry,” he tried again. “I…they looked similar. Obviously I’ve misspoken.”

“No, they’re- Well they _look_ the same, but what Lilith’s got isn’t vallaslin. She didn’t earn it; it doesn’t count. Plus the whole…rest of that mess.” She pulled a disgusted face. “It’s not vallaslin, and she knows it.”

“My apologies,” he offered. Then, hesitantly, “…so you don’t approve of her, ah... _tattoos,_ then?”

“Doesn’t much matter what we approve of,” the other said. “It’s never stopped her before. If Lilith wants something, Creators help the unlucky soul who stands in her way. Sometimes I think it’s too bad she wasn’t a mage after all—at least then someone could have just made her Tranquil and called it good and done.”

He laughed, and Cullen’s polite decorum withered with a fallen frown. “That’s not funny,” he stated. “You can’t…you shouldn’t joke about that.”

He tried to brush it off with a shrug. “Oh, calm down. It’s not as if anyone’s going to _try_.”

“Maybe they should have,” the other said, and her snicker gave rise to a new surge of panic. “Just in case.”

The decorum vanished. “Don’t say that,” Cullen ordered. “That’s…perhaps you’re comfortable making light of such things, but I assure you, that isn’t…we don’t _joke_ about that.”

Not about that. Never again about that.

“He didn’t mean anything by it,” she insisted, but her companion had already fallen warily silent. “It’s just a… If you’d grown up with her you’d understand. It’s only a joke. Lilith doesn’t _care_.”

And that might have been the most grievous injury of all—the idea that Lilith _knew_. That such blasphemous words had ever even been uttered in her presence, had ever befallen her ears. “The _Inquisition_ cares,” he amended, but the clip of his voice teetered dangerously on revile. “And we _do not joke_ about that.”

Dalish clans were tightknit. Familial. It was not Cullen’s place to argue with the people Lilith considered _hers,_ especially when she’d expressly requested for him _not to_ , but…

But that wasn’t funny. Cullen _knew_ that wasn’t funny. He might not have known that years ago, when he was _different_ —young, foolish, so _foolish_ —but he did not want to ever again be the same person he was years ago.

There was nothing funny about what they did. What _he’d_ -

_No._

“If Clan Lavellan finds issue with the Inquisitor,” he evenly informed, “I should remind you that you are under no obligation to reside in her fortress. And if you find you simply cannot refrain from telling hateful _jokes,_ our gates are open. You can happily do so outside them. You are _certainly_ under no obligation to return. Now, if you’re quite finished…” He jabbed a finger toward the gatehouse. “The exit is _there_.”

The pair only blinked, stare fixed on something behind him. It took Cullen a slow, awful moment to think to turn around. He looked back, and into the horrified eyes of Lavellan’s clan elder. A familiar, grim-looking beacon of what was sure to be the demise of Cullen’s career.

Oops.

Roshan was furious, Josephine somehow even angrier, and Leliana mostly just…exhausted. Cullen hadn’t exactly managed to sputter out the most eloquent explanation in his rush to immediately exit the conversation, but he knew, instantly, three certain truths: First, that he should not have said that. Second, that he would not apologize for saying that. And third, that someone was going to _kill_ him.

Presently he kept eyes closest on Josephine.

Lilith didn’t seem angry when he burst in with an irate ambassador on his tail, which was…a small comfort, at least. Although he decided not to repeat their “joke.” (Not even to Josephine, who spent the rest of the evening muttering the furious reminder, “What were you _thinking?_ ”) He wasn’t sure why. It just…felt like something that didn’t need to be repeated. Certainly something he’d rather not think about.

And maybe he was overreacting. Maybe it was a harmless inside joke. Maybe Lilith wouldn’t have cared, but…

What an awful thing to wish upon someone. To wish upon _Lavellan_. He wondered if they knew how close they were to being right—if they knew the fate that would have befallen her if, Maker forbid, she’d been born with _magic_. If she’d had the distinct misfortune of meeting _him_.

They were wrong—a mage with Lilith’s temperament would not have been made Tranquil. They would have killed her, swiftly, when she was still young enough to overpower. Lilith was charismatic and impenitent and _dangerous,_ and they would have snuffed her out in an instant, because that was what they did to those they couldn’t cage. What he’d done. Cullen knew this, and hated. Hated the man who dared make jest of such a thing, and hated himself because in the ringing silence between thoughts he could almost hear it in his own voice.

He felt sick.

Cassandra approached him after. Touched a hand briefly to his shoulder and gave a decisive squeeze. She kept her voice low, face impassive, save a slight wrinkling of the nose. The smallest twinge of disgust. “I know what they said.” The careful impassivity soured. “You were right to speak out.”

He wished he felt right.

That night Cullen awoke in a cold sweat from a nightmare in which Lilith had fallen horribly, horribly silent. He remembered little else, after. Only that her eyes had not been _hers—_ and that he would not apologize.

He dreaded the war table meeting the next morning. Drug his feet all the way to the door and opened it with his head already hung low, steeled for a fresh wave of censure. He found, instead, two very subdued advisors and a curiously absent Inquisitor.

Leliana didn’t look up from the spread of maps before her, lips drawn tight in an unhappy line. Josephine greeted him with the most exhausted attempt at a smile he’d seen to date. “Ah, Commander. I was hoping to speak with you.”

“About yesterday’s…incident,” he started. I-”

“That’s quite alright,” she cut in. “It has come to my personal understanding that the situation is a _bit_ more…challenging, than I initially judged it to be. In retrospect, my reaction may have been hasty.”

 _Hasty?_ Cullen blinked. No. No, she _didn’t_ … “Did you…?”

Josephine strategized her words like arranging a chessboard. “In my eagerness to find common ground with Mistress Lavellan’s peers,” she carefully worded, “it seems I overestimated my grasp of the Elven language, and may have been… _misinformed_ about the meaning of certain casual phrases.” The strain of holding a smile was starting to make her cheek twitch. “Phrases I may have misguidedly repeated.”

“Was this phrase by any chance something you heard from Lilith?” he ventured.

“…there is a distinct possibility.”

Ah. Right, then. Cullen rubbed anxiously at the back of his neck, defeated. “Well, I suppose one out of three is still…something. At least Leliana-”

“ _Leliana,_ ” Josie dryly informed, “pelted Clan Lavellan’s warleader with bread.”

“It was a single roll,” Leliana defended. The first words Cullen had heard her speak. “And say what you will of my methods, but I stand by them. The desired effect was achieved.”

“What was the desired effect? Looking as unprofessional as possible?”

“It silenced him, did it not?”

“ _Children_ throw food, Leliana! _Children!_ What could he have _possibly_ said that was so urgent it warranted such an infantile display?”

“At least _I_ didn’t proposition anyone!”

“ _I thought it meant something else!_ ”

Cullen opened his mouth—to argue or defend, he wasn’t even sure anymore—but found he could produce nothing but a low and broken sigh. “And how is Lilith taking all this, out of curiosity?”

“Well,” Leliana, explained, “she’s…a bit distracted, at the moment.”

* * *

 

‘Distracted’ was a polite description. Lilith spent the better part of her morning very dutifully smoothing over the wreck that was breakfast. She could talk Josephine’s Elven slipup into an adorable misunderstanding, but not without admitting where she learned it from. (And subsequently explaining why Lilith felt _“well fuck me sideways and call me Mythal”_ was an appropriate exclamation of casual surprise.)  She had no goddamn clue what went down with Leliana, but honestly, she wasn’t sure she wanted to know. She was still trying to placate their fuming warleader when at her lowest possible moment, in the throes of defeat, Vivienne walked briskly in and announced, “It seems I may have made the _tiniest_ of mistakes.”

“You’re joking,” Lilith said.

But no, sadly. Vivienne was very much not. “You’ll remember I had all the dishes and silverware replaced,” she went on, unaffected. “A lovely hand-crafted set; elegant without being ostentatious, simple in design yet delicate in execution… I had them specially ordered from an elven craftsman in Orlais, at much great expense of my own. Unfortunately it appears I forgot about the Dalish’s particular affinity for _halla_ …”

Lilith’s eyes snapped up. “No.” A desperate plea. “Vivienne. _My rock_. No.”

“…an affinity which is _not,_ apparently, shared by their Orlesian city counterparts.”

“Please don’t tell me-”

“The handles are carved from halla horn,” she finished, and her cool façade of placidity cracked just the tiniest bit. An infinitesimal tightening at the corner of her lips. “A detail which was helpfully pointed out by a particularly vocal young mage.”

For a worrying stretch of moments, Lilith groaned a long, trailing “ _Nooooooooo,_ ” into her hands. Vivienne could do nothing but give her shoulder a stiff pat.

“Yes,” she granted. “A relatable sentiment.”

* * *

 

Solas had hoped, upon waking, to seek out some forgotten, unoccupied corner of Skyhold and remain there until nightfall, effectively avoiding all contact with wandering elves. If it was absolutely necessary for him to be present he would at least rather do so in peace, and whatever the night before was, _peaceful_ it was not. He thought of Mahanon, the smirking boy with the title _First,_ and his frown bordered too closely on a scowl. If he awoke early and walked quickly he could skip ever repeating that meeting again. Could hopefully skip _many_ meetings.

But then morning happened. Certain unfortunate dialogues happened. The uncomfortably long exclamation of “ _no_ ” happened, which snagged his attention just as he was halfway through the doorway and froze him in his tracks. Solas had hoped to hide safely in the library for as long as physically possible, but the defeated hunch of Lilith’s shoulders as Vivienne relayed their latest failure gave rise to a new urge.

He waited, patiently, until Vivienne left. She swept past him with a steely glare, head held high, and paused for only a moment in passing to hiss, “ _Not a word_.” Any other day a request he would take as a personal challenge. Today, though…

Lilith was still caught between arguing elves when Solas silently took her hand and pulled her back. He kissed her, for once without regard for the eyes of spectators. Held her close with his hand at the dip of her lower back, and met her lips with a sweet and savored ardor normally reserved for sacred nights alone. He hoped her clansmen were still looking.

 _Watch,_ he dared. A familiar flare of hubris he’d thought long buried. _Watch and tell him again that she wasn’t good enough._

Lilith leaned into him with a hum of happy surprise. “Well,” she greeted. “Good morning to you, too.”

“I thought I should remind you of the upcoming meeting you scheduled.” He kept his hand at her waist. Guarding. “In case it slipped your mind.”

“ _Right,_ that very important one.”

“Urgent,” he agreed, and dropped his voice to a low, wicked murmur. “I believe there were discussions of unfulfilled promises and certain ill-phrased acts…”

“There are so many things I want to say to that and none of them can be spoken aloud in polite company.”

“Perhaps we should find less polite company, then.”

She grinned, fingers curling tight in his. “I think I know a place.”

They were ten whole minutes into their private meeting when a wandering elf decided to crack open the dusty door of the cellar library to find Solas’ face buried between their Good Dalish Inquisitor’s thighs. She immediately slammed the door shut, stammering apologies, but the damage had already been done. The pair of them combined could talk their way out of almost anything, but perhaps not with Lavellan’s legs dropped open over her companion’s shoulders.

“In my defense,” Lilith huffed, skirt still hiked up her hips, “that has never happened before. I have never, during the entire course of my residence here, seen another living person in this room.”

“What is happening?” Solas marveled.

“ _People,_ ” she stated, a bitter triumph. “ _People_ are happening. We’ve introduced too many volatile factors; now the whole system has been thrown off course. I’m telling you, it’s _chaos!_ ”

“It is not chaos.”

Lilith slid back against the desktop with a groan. “Should we…I don’t know, go after her?”

“And do what? _Bribe_ her?”

“Maybe. How much you got on you?”

“We are not bribing her.”

“Well then why’d you _offer_ it?”

Solas watched her hastily readjust her clothes, frown sinking deeper. “I thought you didn’t care what your clan thought.”

“I don’t care if they know I share a bed with a boy; I care a little more about _this_.”

“Why?”

“Because,” she insisted, and accompanied it with a shove to his chest. “They already think shifty things about me. Trust me, this will not help.”

“It’s not _that_ scandalous,” he defended, which he realized was an absurd thing to say with the taste of her still lingering on the inside of his lips. “Last I was aware, the Dalish had no particular qualms with extramarital affairs.”

“It’s not a Dalish thing, it’s a _me_ thing. Just…never mind. Forget it.” She looked around their failed temporary boudoir with a steadily deepening scowl. “...I feel like I’m missing something.”

Solas silently handed her what was left of a lacy pair of undergarments. “Remind me again why we could not use your room?”

She paused only a moment before stuffing them in her pocket. “Because if we both disappear up to my bedroom they’ll _know_ what we’re doing.”

“They certainly know now.”

“Technically one person knows,” she pointed out. “Which…could be worse. I mean, let’s be optimistic—she might not even say anything.”

She did, though. With frankly _startling_ speed. A fact made apparent the instant Solas stepped foot into the rotunda and was greeted by the unwelcome sight of Sera once again sat atop his desk. Dorian, at least, had the decency to steal his chair. Neither’s presence was appreciated.

Solas honestly would have just marched past without a word, had Dorian not cleared his throat and asked, “Back from official Inquisition business, I take it?”

Sera let loose a shout of laughter. “ _Business,_ right,” she quipped. “Heard you were inquisit-ing her Lady-ness _real_ good.”

Solas wanted with every aspect of his being to ignore that. Predictably, he could not. “ _Really,_ Sera?” It was all he could manage to formulate at the moment. “ _Really?_ ”

“I’d heard that, too, actually,” Dorian said. “Word of advice, you may want to invest in doors that lock. Or at least less gossip-y staff.”

Solas thought of a hundred ways to fervently deny it, and instead gave in with a sigh and the defeated admission, “…she started it.”

“And somehow that makes this even better.”

“Good on you,” Sera said, “getting up close and personal with Lady Inquisibits.”

“ _Stop_.”

“No, for real! Someone better be showing ‘er some appreciation.”

“You owe her for the library, anyway,” Dorian added. “You also owe me a new chair. Don’t think I didn’t notice.”

 _Lasa ghilan._ “Nobody _owes_ …! What is _happening?_ ”

“ _Chaos,_ ” Sera managed through a fresh wave of giggles, and Solas was sure he had never felt a stronger urge to set her on fire. Or possibly himself. He looked to Dorian with an icy glare. “Go on, I’m sure you have more comments.”

“Not particularly,” he said. “Honestly, this is the most I’ve approved of you in ages. Keep on it, I suppose. So to speak.”

“More like _in it_.” Sera cackled at her own joke, still thoroughly, _maddeningly_ amused. “So are you gonna show up for dinner tonight? Or you think you’ll still be full from eating all that-”

Dorian clapped a hand expertly over her mouth before she could finish. “And that’s quite enough of _that._ ” It did not, unfortunately, stop her from miming.

“For what it’s worth,” Dorian offered as Solas tried unsuccessfully to disappear his face in his hands, “I think you’re still technically the least offensive of us.”

For some reason that did not make him feel better.

* * *

 

Solas decided, against all better judgement, to stay. Perhaps not actively socialize, but at least be _present_. For emotional support, if nothing better. A sympathetic presence for the next inevitable fall. He could promise little else, but could at least offer Lilith that much.

She deserved at least that much.

He spent the day wandering, a silent sentry in the backdrop. A few guests greeted him with friendly nods, but he doubted most noticed him at all. He still preferred not to speak. He did, however, listen.

A group of young elves loitered in the garden, twisting daisies together into chains in the late morning light. They nodded polite hellos to the wandering Chantry sisters tending the flowers. Solas lingered in the shade, silently present, and listened as their voices echoed through the shadowed alcoves.

“Did you see that throne of hers?” he heard one ask. “Bit grandiose, don’t you think? What’s she done to earn that?”

“What’s she done to earn _anything?_ Apparently hitting things with a hammer warrants your own castle now.”

“She must think she’s very important, sitting there giving orders in her big dragon-chair.”

“Probably a dream for her.”

“Oh, I’m sure she relishes it. Lilith, with a captive audience? I’m surprised she hasn’t made herself a crown.”

“Probably out of teeth or thorns or something ghastly.”

“Golden teeth,” one laughed. “For her majesty.” He mimed a flourished bow, and they all had a good laugh. Solas took a deep, steadying breath, and tried to convince his jaw to unclench.

At the stables, an elven couple traded jokes in low, tittering voices. They sat in the shade, backs resting against the stable wall. Their voices were a barely discernable hum beneath the clamor of a busy market.

“She could have any mount in the world,” he heard, “and she brings back dracolisks. A whole stable of _dracolisks_.”

“Don’t forget that abominable horse…thing. And what’s with the giant beast with the _hands?_ A nuggalope? What in Creators’ name…”

“It’s Lilith,” the other reminded. “She’s not happy unless she’s trying to find some new, awful thing to love her.”

They laughed, a dismissive sort of snicker, and moved on to other topics without a pause for thought. Lilith wasn’t the subject of their interests, but a trivial footnote. Some old and familiar joke, repeated without thought. Solas was unsure which part of that made him angrier.

The bulk of Clan Lavellan had set up camp in Skyhold’s lower courtyard, aravels resting in the shade of the infirmary. Late afternoon sun cast the yard in shadows. Most of the elves had long dispersed, attention called to more exciting locales, but a scattered few remained behind. They watched from the shade as the clan’s younger children played nearby.

“Does she think she’s fooling anyone?” he heard someone say. “That dress she’s got probably isn’t even hers.”

“Of course it isn’t; you think she’s going to suddenly start dressing right _now?_ She probably nicked it off some poor dead elf. I’m sure she thinks she looks fabulous, though.”

“Oh, I’m sure she thinks a lot of things.”

“The day Lilith doesn’t dress like a shem brothel girl is the day I welcome her back with open arms.”

“Or else your son might.”

“You bite your tongue! Telahn is a good boy—he’d never get himself mixed up with that. He likes nice girls.”

“I suppose Lilith would rather spend time with the local human boys, anyway.”

They laughed, long and loud. Solas swept past with his eyes fixed ahead, and said nothing. It was not without considerable effort.

 _“Bet she just loves all this attention,”_ he overheard.

_“Bet that new man of hers doesn’t last long.”_

_“Does he know he’s not her first?”_

_“I wonder how long that’ll last.”_

_“I wonder what she did to get in their good graces…”_

_“What_ wouldn’t _she do?”_

Solas listened, silent, and seethed.

 _“Selfish girl,”_ he heard.

_“Strange girl.”_

_“Mad girl.”_

Then he heard other whispers—scattered murmurs of rumors and accusations and darker things—and the swell of rage cooled under a creeping sense of wrongness.

Solas stayed silent, and listened.

* * *

 

Iron Bull wasn’t an idiot. Or…maybe was, sometimes, but not in _general_. He’d take full responsibility for yesterday’s epic fuckup, but it sure as shit wouldn’t become a trend. He was no expert on elves, but he kind of _was_ an expert on a lot of other things. People, more than anything. So it wasn’t exactly a surprise when he started catching some _less than savory_ comments murmured about their dear Inquisitor. Lilith was a helluva lot of fun but she was a lot of other things, too—things that Bull could see getting a bad reaction from some people. And that was fine. A lot of people didn’t tend to react all that well to him, either. A few passive-aggressive comments about Lavellan’s wardrobe wasn’t anything unexpected. People were people, and people talk shit. Bull wasn’t concerned.

Then he started hearing…other things.

Just…weird little comments about shit, snuck into friendly conversation. After yesterday’s fiasco Bull vowed to stay staunchly _out_ of this elf-reunion bullshit, but the Chargers were still on good terms, especially with Krem having “taken over as temporary chief while Bull thinks good and long about what he’s done.” (His words, not Bull’s.) With his men playing nice and the tavern peaceful, Bull was left to observe from afar. Tucked into his corner of the crowded room, safely out of the action, he sat back and watched.

The tavern that day held a lot of voices to listen to. Not all of their comments were appreciated. Not all were made by elves, either.

The Inquisition as a whole was a good organization. Bull got that. But that didn’t mean everyone who hung around Skyhold was _good people_. That was kind of the point, or something. Lilith was the queen of ragtag misfits, the champion of Thedas’ castaways, and her fortress didn’t exactly hide it. Sometimes it wasn’t pretty. And as a whole Clan Lavellan seemed alright, but that didn’t mean there weren’t a few people whose opinions of Lilith were slightly less than shining. It didn’t take long for the two groups to find each other.

It was mostly little things, early on. Errant mentions of Lilith’s penchant for hanging around humans (“Oh, she’s a very _friendly_ elf, alright. No surprise most of the human settlements we camped near liked us so much. Some _ambassador,_ eh?”); scattered remarks on the nature of her relationship with various Inquisition members; a few frankly rude as shit questions about her personal life that tested the boundaries of Bull’s patience…

Some loitering Inquisition scouts made some shitty comment like, “Just how far do those tattoos of hers go?” and a snickering elven boy shrugged and replied, “I wouldn’t know, but I could probably pick out five people just in this tavern who do.”

They all had a good long laugh, even though Bull was 500% certain he was the only person in the building who’d actually seen Lilith naked. (And that had a lot less to do with sexy reasons and a lot more to do with being set on fire.) He said nothing, but made a mental note of the exact shape of each scout’s face on their way out the door. For _future purposes_.

 _“You know why she has those tattoos on her hips, right?”_ he heard someone snicker.  
_“Because she spends so much time facedown it’s the only way for men to know she’s an elf.”_

The most bizarre part was that he hadn’t expected it. Not _this_. He’d guessed her clan would take issue with a few things—the freaky pets, the questionable choice of company, that tricky “Herald of Someone Else’s Deity” title—but this was…not one of them. Lilith was always so open about sex. She hadn’t even blinked when he’d gone into the finer details of sex under the Qun; just sort of shrugged, unoffended, and offered a joking, “Whatever blows your skirt up.” Until now Bull had kind of just assumed it was a Dalish thing. For as long as he’d known Lilith she spoke pretty damn openly of her attractions, a frank and refreshing sense of pride, and Bull had never questioned if that was supposed to be abnormal. Forest-y elves were just really damn open minded, he guessed. Good on them.

Or…not.

He _definitely_ heard about the library incident. (The second one, anyway. He heard about the first from Sera.) And while no one really seemed outraged by it, he definitely didn’t like the snide way they rolled their eyes and made cutting little comments like, _“She would,”_ and _“Can’t even go a day, can she?”_ And yeah, sure, he’d been joking about it with Sera just that morning, but they were _allowed_ to give Lilith shit. This was…different. He wasn’t sure how much he liked the sneering edge to their tones.

He definitely didn’t like the conversation he heard next.

A mixed group of Dalish hunters gathered at a corner table with a handful of Inquisition soldiers. All seemed in remarkably good spirits. Bull sat close enough to snicker along to a few good jokes, but his smile soured with the newest turn of conversation.

“So,” a soldier prompted, arms propped atop the table, “you used to live with the Herald, right? Out in the forest?” His voice dropped low. “She get around much back then?”

“What do you think?” the other smirked. “I never had her, but I know others who did. A lot of shems, I heard. How else do you think she lived alone so long?”

“You ask me, I think that’s how she traveled around so much. Always someone willing to pay for a friendly elf, you know?”

“Especially one without standards.”

“Bet that’s why this new flame of hers is still around. She’ll probably let him do anything.”

“She’d have to, in order for him to put up with her.”

“Something’s got to make up for her face, and it’s not her sparkling personality.”

Their ripple of hushed laughter was one of the most infuriating sounds Bull had ever heard. He scanned the lingering crowd for familiar faces, hoping someone else would overhear and charge in at Lilith’s defense so _he_ wouldn’t need to, but no one stirred. Crap.

Ohh, Krem was gonna kill him…

“I heard that’s how she got that fancy title in the first place,” some shithead soldier said. “I mean, you didn’t hear it from me, but there’s rumors of her and the Commander engaging in some _behind doors activities,_ back when they were still at Haven. Went from a jail cell to a throne room by way of her mattress.”

“The Commander? I thought it was with the Spymaster?”

“I dunno, both maybe? It’s not like she’s picky.”

“That’s why she gets the biggest bedchamber. Bet she makes full use of it.”

A snickering recruit leaned forward, voice a smug murmur. “You think she swallows?”

Iron Bull was surprised how much effort he had to put into not standing up and punching directly through his skull. Instead he took a breath, loosened his fists, and thought: _What would Lilith do?_

Shit, he didn’t know. She’d probably just answer, honestly. And give way, way too many details, because she was a goddamn _storyteller_ and she would _craft_ that imagery. She would turn it into a fully comprehensive experience; a vivid opera of _shit you didn’t want to know_. It would probably be really upsetting to a lot of people. They probably wouldn’t ever ask her that stupid fucking question again.

He spoke up instead with, “Only with your mother,” and felt like she would have approved of that.

* * *

 

Day three, as far as Dorian was concerned, was nothing but damage control. No more socializing, no more meddling, just pure and simple _defense_. Maybe the teensiest bit of meddling. If the opportunity so presented itself. But _mostly_ defense.

 _90%_ defense.

He decided early on to stay close to Vivienne—thus far the least disappointing of them all—and just prayed they had enough charm between them not to repeat yesterday. And, well…it wasn’t _worse._ Technically.

Dorian could probably think of a few other fitting words to describe it.

Morning was a breeze. He and Vivienne were doing a rather brilliant job of keeping up pleasantries, all vague answers and blank, civil nods. Nothing seemed too out of the ordinary, until a casual conversation on Orlais prompted one elf to interject from across the table with a rather…odd comment.

“That whole place is one big disaster waiting to happen,” he said. “We traveled through there once, years ago, before…well. We weren’t across the border more than a day before bandits raided our camp. Would have been the fight of the century, if Lilith hadn’t convinced them we were agents of the Empress. Said we’d been sent on a special ‘reconnaissance mission,’ and interfering would amount to high treason against the Empire. Told them they’d all be hanged within a week.” He snorted. “Scared them half to death, it did. One of them actually _saluted_. Creators, that girl is a handful, but if there’s anything she’s good at, it’s taking a proper punch and lying through her teeth.”

Dorian staunchly ignored that last comment (and the subsequent urge to very passionately correct him). “A bunch of Dalish elves, scouting for the Empress?” he went with instead. “I can’t believe they bought that.”

“Well, that’s what she _said_ she told them, anyway. I can’t understand a word of Orlesian, myself.”

Dorian sat up a bit straighter. “Sorry? She spoke _Orlesian,_ you say?”

“Yeah,” he affirmed. “You should have seen the looks on their faces when she did, too. ‘The Empress deals swiftly with dissidents.’ I thought they’d up and run.”

Dorian glanced sidelong at Vivienne, confusion mounting. “Since when does Lilith speak Orlesian?”

The corners of Vivienne’s lips ever-so-slightly fell, the first crack in her pleasant façade. For the briefest instant he could almost swear he saw a glimmer of something resembling _panic_ , but any trace was disappeared in a blink. “Dorian, dear, could you be a doll and check on those _squirrels_ for me?”

Against all better judgement, he ignored her. “I wasn’t aware the Dalish were so…bilingual,” he went on, and expected very much to regret that.

The elf shrugged. “Oh, we didn’t teach her that. Creators only know where she picked it up. Not that I’m complaining; it’s a lot more useful than the other ones. I mean, what’s the point of learning _Qunlat?_ Does she expect to hop on a ship and visit Par Vollen some time soon? Just…an odd way to prioritize time, in my opinion.”

Dorian nodded, but said nothing. Vivienne’s icy glare kept his mouth firmly shut.

“ _Not a word,_ ” she warned.

Interesting.

The next odd break from script didn’t occur until mid-afternoon. They were entertaining a friendly group of fellow mages in the tower, doing a _fabulous_ job of saying absolutely nothing substantial, when an elven woman casually asked, “Whatever happened to that bounty on Lilith’s head, by the way?”

Dorian stopped short. He felt the heat of Vivienne’s cautionary stare like fire at his back. “ _Don’t,_ ” she hissed. “ _Don’t you dare_.”

“Do those sort of things expire, or something?” the elf went on. “Can you pay them off?”

Vivienne cleared her throat, prepared to deftly misdirect, and before she could snatch his opportunity away Dorian said a very stupid thing: “What bounty?”

Vivienne looked ready to _skin_ him.

“I think you mean which one,” another elf corrected, and earned a ripple of quiet laughter from their other Dalish guests. “You could always tell when Lilith was back in the area, because suddenly people would start tramping into camp looking for her.”

“If it was a girl come looking she’d broken a heart, if it was a boy she’d generally broken a bone. None of them were ever happy to see us. I can’t _imagine_ why.”

“I don’t miss those visits, I’ll tell you that now. The last thing a Dalish clan needs is the undue attention of angry townspeople and local law enforcement.”

They laughed, and Dorian just slowly blinked. Well _that_ was certainly new information. “What on earth was she _wanted_ for?” he asked. But apparently that was a complicated question. Reports of her crime varied with each new voice—theft, murder, high treason. Each hastily murmured confession sparked correction from another.

“I think she killed somebody,” one suggested.

“Assassinated,” another said.

“Assassinated,” Dorian repeated flatly. “Right. Because there’s no better way to stealthily kill someone than with a giant hammer.”

“You lot gave her the hammer,” he argued. “Not us.”

“ _Creators,_ remember what she did to Silvhen’s boy?”

“I’m not sure his eyebrows ever came back right.”

They tittered on about people Dorian didn’t know, and he soon felt a tug at his elbow. “I think it’s time we took our leave,” Vivienne politely suggested. Her nails sunk calculatedly into the curve of his arm. “ _Past_ time, even.”

He decided it better not to argue.

He heard a few nastier aspersions throughout the day—some more troublesome than others—but thought it best to let Vivienne handle them from now on. The Enchanter was more than adept at diversion, her wit tactically charming, and Dorian was quick enough to at least keep up. More than that, he could not promise. He kept his smile light and mouth sealed shut.

 _For Lilith,_ he reminded.

Ironically, the day’s brightest spot was his accidental meeting with Lilith’s Keeper. She waved them down in the courtyard with a shout of some elven greeting, eyes alight. “I was hoping to see you again,” she hailed, and Dorian thought instantly of a hundred excuses to flee. Instead Vivienne anchored him in place with the touch of a manicured hand.

“Keeper Deshanna,” she greeted. “I’ve heard _such_ wonderful things. Please—join us.”

Dorian felt he had enough experience chatting up Lavellan’s clansmen by now to predict their interactions, but he would admit her Keeper caught him off guard. Vivienne made some comment about _“Inquisitor Lavellan,”_ and Deshanna could only beam.

“Inquisitor Lavellan,” she fondly echoed, and the pride in her voice sang like an anthem. “I’ll never get used to that.”

Their brief interaction was…delightful, actually. Deshanna took personal pride in every minute accomplishment of Lilith’s, from minor political victories to particularly clever landscaping choices. According to Deshanna Skyhold was _magnificent,_ her decorating _inspired,_ the grotesque menagerie of various non-horses in their stables _eclectic_ and _charming_. Maker help him, Dorian actually saw her reach out and _pet_ the ghastly undead horse-thing Lilith affectionately referred to as “Lady Fairmane.” Even _he_ couldn’t do that.

She patted a dracolisk on the snout with a warm, pleasant smile. “Lilith always was good with animals,” she said, as if collecting beasts was some sort of grand accomplishment. “I used to tell her she had such a sweet soul that even beasts couldn’t help but love her.”

Which would have been sweet, if Lilith attracted songbirds and puppies and not bizarre horrors like the greater Avvar War Nug. Still, though—Dorian could appreciate the sentiment.

Maker help him, she even approved of _Solas_. _Dorian_ didn’t even approve of Solas. Lilith’s questionable romantic life was the only thing he actually felt her family could have justifiably judged, and yet Deshanna could do nothing but fondly gush. “She looks so happy,” she mused. “I couldn’t approve more.”

Dorian could have very successfully argued against that verdict, but didn’t, of course. To Deshanna, everything served as a testament to Lilith’s greatness. And that was actually…kind of adorable, if he was being honest. Certainly refreshing.

“I’m so proud of her,” she said, and Dorian found himself eagerly nodding along. Yes. It was about time someone was.

 _“My beautiful girl,”_ she said.

_“My clever girl.”_

_“My little tiger.”_

She called her “ _ma vher’assan_ ” in the sweet, adoring voice he expected mothers should have, and the warmth of it clung to his skin like perfume. He wasn’t sure what it meant, but the sound of it was…lovely. His smile lingered long after they parted ways, a happy reminder of soft foreign words. It was almost enough to make up for the things he heard after.

Almost.

* * *

 

By dusk Lavellan’s inner circle had all but disappeared from Skyhold’s grounds. Or at least from sight. With the castle proper no longer safe, the less sociable of her companions were forced to seek solitude elsewhere. In corners of the fortress less likely to attract unwanted visitors. They settled, grudgingly, on Sera’s room. So far it was the only scrap of Skyhold yet untouched by guests. Its convenient placement directly above the tavern was its own unique bonus.

Vivienne and Dorian took over the least cluttered corner of the room, curtains drawn tight behind them to block any wandering eyes. They brought their own wine—some unpronounceable vintage reserved for either celebration or mourning. Bull rested with his back against the narrow bench Sera called a bed and wished he’d had the same idea.

Blackwall kept his head ducked low as he hurried through the door, two pitchers of ale in hand. He shouldered it closed behind him with a decisive _slam_. For once he felt glad for an overcrowded tavern. “So,” he announced. “That’d be day three, then. How’d everyone fare?”

Sera lay sprawled facedown on the floor, face buried in a sea of scattered pillows. She jutted a middle finger into the air without bothering to raise her head and mumbled a heated “ _fuckoff_.”

“I don’t want to talk about it,” Dorian sulked.

Vivienne took a slow sip of wine and just said, “ _No._ ”

Bull said nothing. Only stood, silently took a pitcher from his hand, and sat back down.

Blackwall gave a curt nod. “Right. About the same, then.”

They drank in silence. Quite possibly the first unanimous decision the five of them had ever come to. Blackwall wasn’t sure if that was impressive or depressing.

Impressively depressing, maybe.

Bull was the first to break. “So. We gonna compare notes on all the shit we weren’t supposed to hear today?”

Sera sat up in a flash, hair matted flat against her forehead. “Not in my room you’re not,” she ordered. “You want to royally fuck up Lilith’s day even more? Gonna have to do it outside. I’m _done_. This room is for _drinking_ and _shutting up_.”

“I’m sorry I even asked in the first place,” Dorian admitted. “Maker. I’ve never been more thankful to be estranged from my parents. This reunion business is a proper _nightmare_.”

“Besides.” Vivienne’s icy glare cut precise and deep. “What the Inquisitor chooses to keep private is entirely her prerogative. And not, _my dear_ , yours.”  

Bull gave a slow nod. “…we can all agree she’s definitely a criminal though, right?”

Sera face planted back into her pillows with an exaggerated _ugh_. “Oh, big whatever; who _isn’t?_ ”

“Not even worth bringing up, if you ask me,” Dorian agreed.

“Trivial and irrelevant, darling.”

“Maker’s balls, do you even know who you’re _talking_ to?”

“‘Sides,” Sera added. “Raise your hand if you’ve never done a crime, why don’t you?”

Unsurprisingly, no one moved. “Atrociously worded,” Vivienne pointed out, “but the message is valid. For once.”

“Thanks? I think?”

The door slammed open with a fantastic _bang,_ and Blackwall couldn’t say he was surprised to see Varric’s horrified face in the doorway. “Holy shit,” he marveled, “it wasn’t a _contest!_ I mean it was, I guess, but you weren’t all supposed to _lose!_ ”

Sera gave a low, furious groan. “Oh, no. No, no. Out of here, you!” She chucked a pillow at him to emphasize her point and instead knocked down a picture frame. “You’re not welcome here, you cheating tit!”

“Yeah,” Bull said. “Losers only.”

Vivienne decidedly cleared her throat. “I beg your pardon. I don’t _lose,_ dear. I miscalculate. Slightly.”

“Losers and Vivienne only,” he amended.

“Acceptable.”

“Fine, fine,” Varric relented. He slunk back, hands raised in surrender. “…I got Killer’s middle name, though. Or…second name? Secret elf name? I’ll be honest they kind of lost me with the elven words, but I’m pretty sure it’s the closest thing to a middle name they’ve got. So.” He paused midway out the door to flash a slow-growing grin. “If the Losers Club isn’t interested…”

The room looked collectively to Sera.

“…fine,” she allowed. “You can stay. But this better be frigging _good_.”

* * *

 

Solas knew there was a problem the instant he stepped into the hall and met eyes with Cassandra. She marched through the crowd before he could quietly backtrack, fists curled tight, and halted him in place with a hand anchored to his shoulder.

“ _Where is Lavellan?_ ” she demanded.

Solas was a patient man, but the day had been far too long. His carefully maintained indifference slipped at the edges of sharper emotions. “I believe they’re scattered all over,” he offered.

“You know which one!”

He shrugged out of her grasp with a touch more force than he’d intended. “Is Lilith in _trouble,_ Seeker?”

The ire cooled. Cassandra sank back a step, scowl softening into something sadder. “No. Maybe… Not _permanently_ , at any rate.” The grim line of her mouth broke with an exhausted sounding sigh. “The matter is…complicated. Nobody is in trouble. Yet. But the Inquisitor’s voice would be appreciated. If you happen upon her, _please_ tell her that her advisors request her presence. Urgently.”

“I will be sure to relay the message.” He moved to sweep past her and was paused with a more tentative touch.

“I will always stand with Lilith,” Cassandra vowed, voice dropped low. “Regardless of _complications_. She has earned her place here, and to even _think_ that- Well. She knows well where my loyalties lie. But I cannot fight unaided on her behalf. She could at least spare me a moment for that.”

“I’ll tell her,” he promised, and meant it a bit more that time.

Actually finding her presented a unique challenge. Lilith knew Skyhold with the esoteric familiarity of an old and devoted friend. She knew each hidden alcove, each hall, each crumbling cellar staircase and dusty ruin. It was _her_ fortress, _her_ home, and she navigated it like cat in the night; a swift, weaving shadow. Solas had always attributed it to her complete inability to remain still for any given period of time. Lately, though, he couldn’t help but wonder if perhaps she’d been searching. Mapping. Cataloguing hideaways and exit strategies in case…what?

What was she expecting?

Solas checked Sera’s room when her own turned up empty, and found half her inner circle, but no Lilith. “Sorry,” Dorian reported, hand stationed safely on the door handle. “I’m afraid I haven’t seen her since morning.”

Solas peered through the narrow crack in the door with a skeptical frown. “What exactly are you…?”

“Losers club,” Bull called out somewhere behind him. “And separately Vivienne.”

“It’s been a very long day,” Dorian translated. “When you do find Lilith, could you tell her…ah. Well. Just buy her a drink for me, would you?”

Yes. He could do that.

Solas suspected Lavellan had the same idea her companions did. (Certainly the same idea _he’d_ had since the very beginning of this ordeal.) Fortunate then, he thought, that perhaps he alone knew Skyhold better than she did.

It took only moments to track her down in the gatehouse. The cobwebbed room within was “a nightmarish arachnid horror kingdom” (in Lilith’s words), but she only ever passed through it to reach the narrow corridor outside. Solas kept his steps measured and silent as he neared the doorway. He slowed at the faint echo of a half-heard tune hummed low.

Past the door, Lilith sat perched atop the far end of the wall, crossed legs dangling over the bridge below. Just as he suspected. She hummed the refrain of some song she only half remembered beneath the glow of flickering torchlight, and for a slow moment Solas only watched. Content in the silence of a brief and simple peace. Then he noticed the smoldering pipe in her hand, and the moment ended.

He waited just until the peak of a long, steady drag, and cleared his throat.

Lilith promptly choked. “ _I wasn’t,_ ” she sputtered between coughs. She waved her hands to clear the air while simultaneously exhaling a stream of smoke through her nose. “If anyone asks,” she clarified, “no I’m not.”

Solas looked to her still-smoldering pipe with a frown. “Is that truly the best idea?”

“No,” she said. “Yes. Maybe?” A weary sigh spiraled wisps of smoke past her lips. “Look, I deserve this, alright? It has been one _incredibly_ long day.”

“So I have heard.” He eyed the half-full jar of elfroot at her side with a tired glare. “That is not what it’s for.”

“It’s exactly what it’s for,” she argued. “Why do you think I grow so much of it?”

“I’m aware of why. I think the better part of your clan is, as well.”

“Whatever, _dad._ ”

“Do not do that.”

“Whatever, _mom_.”

“That’s not- Yes. Alright. Fine.” He slowed to a stop a few feet from her perch, hesitant. A day’s worth of questions and yet no combination of words felt right to say. “I’ve been told voicing your troubles helps ease them,” he carefully began. “Was there perhaps something _you_ would like to talk about?”

“Is that what they say, huh?” She smirked, but the rigid line of her shoulders had already relaxed. “Well, that depends. Which of my vices would you rather partake in tonight?”

“Preferably not this one.”

“Deal.” She emptied the contents of her pipe over the wall with a few neat taps, ashes sent scattering in the wind, and nimbly hopped down from her ledge. She gathered up her supplies in one quick sweep. “Drinks are on you, then.”

No sooner did she speak than a stern voice echoed up from somewhere down below: “ _Lilith Lavellan,_ that better not be what I think it is!”

Solas found a jar of elfroot shoved against his chest, followed by the hushed plea, “Quick, pretend it’s yours!”

“No!” Then, with far less conviction, “Why?”

“ _Because!_ ”

“Lilith!” Roshan called again, closer. His footsteps echoed across the bridge below. She waved frantically for Solas to _say something,_ and unsure what else to do, he called down a hesitant, “…no?”

“Nice,” Lilith whispered. “An unbreakable defense.”

“She’s not here,” he tried again, and hated absolutely every part of what was happening. “She…left.”

Lilith buried her face in her hands, a picture of defeat. “Oh my god,” she silently bemoaned. “How are you not a better liar than this?”

Solas was honestly starting to wonder that himself.

They snuck out through the gatehouse door with more or less success, and took to the ramparts in hopes of circumventing any more elven run-ins. Once safely out of sight she snagged his arm in hers, head tilted comfortably against his shoulder, and took a deep, steadying breath. “You know in retrospect,” she offered, “I did warn you.”

Yes. So she did. He slowed his stride to match her, stone path dark in the vanishing sunset. “So,” he offered, “where to?”

If Lilith had regard for wandering eyes she didn’t show it. She pulled Solas along with her hand twined loose in his to the bustling second floor of the tavern, and took her seat at a corner table usually reserved for Sutherland’s company.

The room buzzed with the steady hum of conversations too numerous to focus on. Solas kept watchful eyes on the clusters of tavern patrons seated nearby. “Would you not prefer somewhere more private?”

She laughed, a warm and welcome sound. “Solas,” she reprimanded, eyes alight. “You’re never better hidden than in plain sight.”

He supposed he could hardly argue with that.

Lavellan wasted no time waving down a serving girl and requesting a bottle—“or actually, make that three”—of wine. She put it on Dorian’s tab without a moment’s pause.

“How did you know he meant to buy you a drink?” Solas asked, and was met with a quizzically arched brow.

“…he what?”

Solas very nearly refused when she neatly poured a glass and slid it his way. Thought of a good handful of entirely valid reasons to, even. Instead he accepted it with a brief, wordless nod.

It had been, in all fairness, a _very_ long day.

“So,” she began. “Are you going to start, or am I?”

“Are you actually open to questions now?”

“Well. ‘Open’ may be a bit premature. I’m _flexible to the possibility of discussion_. Maybe.”

Solas settled back in his chair, eyes narrowed, and tried to process the bitter irony of accusing Lavellan of deception. “I had hoped by now you would have more faith in me than that,” he decided on. It sounded unconvincing even to himself.

For a while she was quiet— evaluating. She swirled her glass of wine with a thoughtful sort of frown. “Tell you what,” she proposed. “Let’s implement some structure to this spiral of madness. You can ask me any yes or no question, and I will answer with the utmost honesty. No explanation. No hesitation. No maybe’s.”

A tempting offer, he’d admit, but… “And?”

“And in return I get to ask you a question of equal or lesser value.” Her smile subtly sharpened. “With the same utmost honesty in reply.”

Now that was more expected. A significantly less tempting offer, indeed. “Fine,” he decided. “I agree.”

“Also, you have to take a drink each time the other answers. Sorry. Those are the rules.”

“I would expect no less.”

“Good.” She leaned over the table to slowly inch his glass closer. “After you, then.”

Solas studied the wine before him with a skeptical tilt of a frown. This would either end in enlightenment or disaster, and the difference relied solely on his unique ability to maintain _control_. He rifled through possible lists of questions in his head, scanning for weak spots in his rhetoric. He could still keep the upper hand, if he was careful. He wrapped fingers slowly around his glass. “Are your parents truly dead?”

“No,” she answered. “Are yours?”

“Yes.”

“There. Information shared. That wasn’t so hard, right?” The breezy inflection she employed did nothing to make the words any less a dare. She raised her glass in a gallant toast, eyes glittering. “Now drink.”

He did, and watched as Lilith calculatedly matched it. Apparently he was not the only one playing careful that evening. “Are you bothered by the things your clan says about you?”

“…no,” she decided, but the pregnant pause before her answer lasted far too long for comfort.

Solas smiled. A wholly artificial motion. “I thought we were refraining from lying.”

“It’s not a lie,” she defended. “And explanations aren’t part of the game. Do the things they say about me bother you?”

“Yes. Very much so.”

She leaned back with a guarded stare and the smallest twitch of a smile. “Were you planning on doing something about it?”

“No,” he lied. “Were you?”

“Definitely not.”

“Fine, then.” They both drank. This time with less calculated precision. His next question he considered a bit more carefully. “Does Deshanna’s significance in your life extend beyond her role as Keeper?”

If he expected her to falter he would be severely disappointed. “Yes,” she said. “Does my significance in _your_ life extend beyond casual dalliance?”

“That is not a question of equal value.”

“It is when I make the rules.”

He frowned, but that was an answer he already knew with certainty. “You are always more. Yes.” She had to know that already, though. Didn’t she? “And what is it _you_ hope to gain from this endeavor, by chance?”

“Nothing,” she answered. The swiftness with which she announced it caught him off guard. A brisk and easy confidence. “I just want you.”

“And so you have me.”

The sweetness of her crooked smile made his heart ache. “Good,” she said. “Same.”

His next question was far less well received. “Did you ever actually want children?”

Now _there_ was the response he’d been hoping for. Lilith faltered, her mask slipping. The split second of fire before she smothered her glare was answer enough. “No,” she snapped. “Did you?”

“…no.”

“Good,” she said. “Same page, then.”

“And still no explanation, I take it.”

“If you want to play that game, we’ll need to kick up my alcohol intake.”

“Fine,” he challenged, and neatly drained what was left of his glass. “Round two, then?”

She studied him with a long and critical stare, wheels ever-turning, before wordlessly pouring them both another drink. She nodded. “After you.”

A hundred whispered words bubbled to the surface of his memory. A thousand fresh questions. He needed to proceed with care. “So _do_ you speak Orlesian?”

“I speak a lot of things. You knew that.”

“I was under the impression you knew only various dirty phrases.”

“No, those just happen to be my favorites.” Her eyes narrowed. “Would _you_ like to comment on why a non-Dalish elf knows so much about the linguistic nuances of Elven?”

“Do the Dalish have a monopoly on language?”

“Are you going to narrowly deflect every question, or just the really good ones?”

Solas chose very deliberately not to answer that. “Language is history,” he offered instead. “I have a vested interest in both.”

“And communication is power. Two things I have an interest in as well.”

“Do we both take a drink, then?”

“We both take two,” she decided after an unhappy pause. “For being evasive.”

They matched each other’s sips in perfect, wary synchronization. A calculated decent into inebriation. Solas’ confidence in subterfuge began to waver. “Does your clan know you would denounce their gods?”

“…yes,” she answered hesitantly. “But best not to rub that in their faces. Maybe don’t use the word ‘denounce,’ either. ‘Passively ignore’ sounds a lot more palatable.”

“You wouldn’t denounce them, then?”

“Of course I would. They just don’t need to hear that. If believing in elven gods makes them happy, let them have it. I find happiness elsewhere. That’s not their business.”

“Even if it’s not the truth?”

That only made her laugh. “ _Ooh,_ now we’re getting into some delicious subjectivity. Whose truth are you referring to, exactly?”

“Can there be no absolute truth?”

“A better question is can there be an absolute _anything?_ Absolute good, absolute evil, etcetera and so forth. And to what extent are its parameters dictated by the popular opinion of a flawed and ever-changing populace?”

“Meaning imposed onto chaos,” he summarized. “Yes, a familiar theme.”

“I try to be consistent.”

He cocked his head in study. “Should we cease ever seeking the truth, then? If it truly is so unobtainable a concept.”

“The opposite— _always_ seek the truth. Even when you think you’ve found it. There might be another one out there, and it might be a little closer to something absolute. ‘Unobtainable’ only means it can’t be obtained _yet_.”

Solas hummed laughter with a wry crack of a smile. “For the leader of an organization built to restore order, you speak awfully fondly of chaos.”

She refilled their glasses with a laugh loud and easy. “Wax poetic all you like,” she said. “The world’s only fun if we’re all playing nice.”

Amid talk and questions and wandering, labyrinthine discussions Solas lost track of rules and turns. He didn’t realize they’d finished a bottle until another was brought to replace it. Lilith filled both their glasses without skipping a beat in conversation, a swift, fluid gesture, and Solas couldn’t help but wonder if he’d somehow misjudged his abilities.

 _Careful,_ he reminded.

_Tactful._

He waited until she raised her glass to her lips before slowly picking up his own. “Your clansmen have much to say about you, you know.”

“I bet.”

“Are you not curious what they said?”

“I know what they say,” she assured. “I don’t need a refresher.”

“And you’re not in any way opposed to that?”

“What other people think of me is none of my business,” she said. “And it shouldn’t be yours either.”

“You don’t feel the need to correct them?”

“I’m not here to win a popularity contest; I’m here to help people. Sometimes that doesn’t always garner the best reputation. That’s fine. History seldom speaks fondly of agents of change. Honestly, I’d be more worried if they all blindly loved me.”

“One does not need to be blind to love you.”

“No, but it sure helps.”

She laughed, but Solas couldn’t share that sentiment. He did not love her less for seeing more of her. Would never. “Have you considered their opinions of you are simply _wrong?_ ”

“Does that make a difference?”

“Of course it does.”

He noted she was careful how she proceeded. Which words she chose to arrange. “Do you know what the weather is going to be like tomorrow?”

“You were supposed to answer the question.”

“I am. So do you?”

He grudgingly relented. _Careful,_ he reminded, a silent mantra. _Care._ _Tact. Control._ “Similar to today, one would assume.”

Lilith nodded. “You could assume that. And you’d probably be right. Probably. Maybe the sky’s set just right for a sunny day, all factors in order, but then all of a sudden, out of nowhere…!” She fluttered her hand in a dramatic gesture before dropping it back to the table. “ _Bloop._ A butterfly flaps its wings in Par Vollen, and a hurricane hits Orlais. It’s a simplified analogy, but you get the point. Huge changes aren't triggered all at once by some big, decisive event—it's all the little, minor things. Seemingly inconsequential details that click together when you're not even paying attention. Some flap-happy, shit-starting little butterfly, throwing off the whole system.”

“Were you still planning on answering my question at some point?”

She took care in the cautious framing of her response. A poised, measured inquiry. “Do you think the butterfly is bad?”

“Are we still talking about butterflies?”

“Always.”

Solas deliberated on his answer for a long, weighted moment before speaking. “I think every now and then the world benefits from a good storm.”

“It does,” she agreed. “But you can’t blame its victims for cursing it, can you?”

“That depends. Are they cursing the butterfly, or the storm that followed in its wake?”

“Is there really a difference?”

Solas hated that he had no confident answer to that. Hated even more, though, that Lilith didn’t share his anger. “A lovely metaphor perhaps, but I fail to see the connection. Are you saying you think your clan’s opinions of you are somehow _justified?_ ”

“Yes, and no. I don’t blame them, if that’s what you mean.” But there was something so dismissive about the way she said it, so terribly empty. “Just because my intentions are good doesn’t mean the repercussions are. I’ve caused my clan a lot of shit—I get that. They have a right to hate me. I’m over it.”

He thought of whispered barbs replayed again— _selfish girl, strange girl, mad girl_ —and low-spoken insults shared without regard. He remembered Mahanon’s sneering face.

_“At least if I’d been at that conclave instead of you, we’d have a real elf leading Thedas.”_

And perhaps it was the hour or conversation or the excess of wine, but in that moment Solas wanted nothing more than to tell her she was wholly, astoundingly _wrong_. Wanted to draw forth every ounce of fury owed her, a lifetime of righteous indignation, and lay it out before her until she acknowledged with no uncertainty that her clan was _wrong_. She was _good,_ and _his,_ and they were all wrong.

The right words floated too far from reach. If things had been different, if by some impossible means time could be bent and their paths crossed sooner…

His thoughts broke and scattered at the sound of her laughter.

“Lucky you,” she chided. “You have the distinct pleasure of personally experiencing a whole _week_ of Hurricane Lavellan.”

He couldn’t help but smirk. “I thought _you_ were Hurricane Lavellan.”

She feigned offense, wine glass tipping precariously in hand. “Clearly I’m Lightning Lavellan,” she corrected with a scoff. “Get your facts straight.”

Solas still had a long, carefully considered list of questions left in his repertoire, but they suddenly lost their appeal. He no longer wanted to talk about her clan. Had, perhaps, talked about them enough for a lifetime. Unanchored, his thoughts drifted back into a dark and familiar regret like a ship lost to the tide.

“Tell me,” he tested, “are hypothetical questions permissible in this game?”

“Everything is permissible. Now is it _beneficial?_ ” She tapped a nail to her temple with a growing smile. “That’s the real question.”

He settled back in his chair, fingers thoughtfully steepled. “If you were given the choice to sacrifice one life to save a thousand,” he asked, “would you? Or would choose the one and leave the thousand to perish?”

The smirk that tugged uneven at the corner of her lips painted her words as a challenge. “I would reject the idea that I can’t save them all.”

“What if you can’t?”

“Then I try harder.”

“And if that fails?”

“Then I carry that weight,” she said. “But at least I tried. In the end that’s all you can ask anyone to do.”

Solas wasn’t sure what answer he was looking for, exactly, but he supposed that wasn’t the worst one. “Such optimism,” he remarked, and couldn’t quite help but smile. “Where were you when I was young and foolish?”

The shout of Lilith’s laughter startled a dozing guest at the neighboring table. “Haven’t you heard?” she cackled. “Off eating babies, probably.”

Evening slipped blearily into night, the tavern gradually emptying with each new bottle brought to the table. Solas lost count of what number they were on.

Lilith had drug her chair next to his, content to rest with her head against his shoulder and his arm loose around her as she swirled wine in her glass. They’d long ago run out of relevant questions. “If you could have any animal, living or otherwise, as a fully domesticated, fully ridable pet, what would it be?”

He ran his hand over her arm, absently tracing patterns with his fingertips. “A griffon, I think. Yours?”

“Dragon.”

“Obviously.”

“Hey, squid was a close second. In the end I had to side with practicality.”

“What would you possibly do with a pet _squid?_ ” he snorted.

“Put a whole new level of fear into my enemies, that’s what.” She finished off the last of some unknown bottle with a wince and a grin, but Solas was still stalled with his hand around his glass. He tried unsuccessfully not to look sick.

“Not tapping out, are you?” she ventured.

He waved the suggestion away in his best imitation of offense. “Of course not. Just…a moment.” He tried to swallow back a surge of nausea, face suddenly feeling _very_ warm. On second thought perhaps he’d need a few moments.

 _Careful,_ he thought.

_Careful, careful, careful-_

“You know, if you’re feeling sick…” She slipped a pipe from some hidden pocket of her vest and slid it his way with a creeping, devilish grin. “I know a decent remedy for that.”

Solas couldn’t manage to hold his glare nearly long enough to be convincing. “Has anyone ever told you that you are a terrible influence?”

“Almost daily.”

 _Care, tact, control_. “I am far too old for this.”

“You’re only too old when you’re dead.” She tapped a nail evenly against the side of her pipe. “So what’s a girl have to do to get a light?”

 _Control,_ his mind flashed. _Control._

“A terrible influence,” he repeated, but lit it with a grudging snap of his fingers.

Perhaps only once.

* * *

 

Solas couldn’t remember when the game ended. He couldn’t, in all honesty, remember a good many things. He remembered conversations about pasts and hypotheticals that stretched and rambled like an old mountain road, twisting in and out of coherence, but everything after was shrouded in a haze. He was halfway into some new rambling tangent when he noticed Lilith had fallen asleep with her head resting comfortably against his shoulder.

He would admit—for a long while he just watched her, too caught up in the soft lines of her sleeping face to entertain moving. He watched the even rise and fall of her chest with a dazed, absent smile.

_If things had been different…_

“ _Vhenan_.” He jostled her shoulder with the utmost care. “I think it’s time you retired for the night.”

“Too late,” she mumbled. “Already done. Asleep. Leave me here forever; this table is my home now.”

“No.”

“ _Yes_.” She buried her face in the curve of his throat with a satisfied exhale. “I am the Inquisitor of this table.”

“ _No,_ ” he maintained. The effort it took to gently disentangle her was no small feat. He stood with far less stability than he was comfortable with, vision blurring in a curious mixture of sensations. He felt simultaneously very light and very, very heavy.

And slightly spinning.

Oh.

He splayed a hand against the nearest wall for support and tried to quell a rising surge of nausea. It’d been a while since he’d been drunk, but far longer since he’d been _sick_. Centuries, probably. He blinked hard, balance ebbing. “You are a terrible influence,” he stated to a soundly sleeping Lilith. “I hope you know that.”

Picking her up was easy—Lilith only barely scraped five feet with her head held high, a compact ball of lean muscle whose weight halved when she dropped her weapon. Solas carried her with her head tucked soundly against his chest.

“A terrible influence,” he murmured. He peered over the railing to scan the tavern below with a slightly blurry gaze, and tried to figure out how on earth he could sneak them both out unnoticed.

This may, he considered, have been a mistake.

Lilith’s head lolled back against him, and with a crooked grin she mumbled, “ _Chaos_.”

“Chaos,” he echoed, half-hearted. “Yes.”

This was fine. Solas could make this fine.

Dorian spotted them before they even made it to the stairs. He called their names with a signaling wave, and Solas was horrified to see Vivienne round the corner with him. Whatever Dorian had lined up to say dropped away with the curious arching of a brow. “…are you _drunk?_ ”

 _Fenedhis_.

 “No.” Solas lost balance and accidentally smacked Lavellan’s head against a beam. “…it’s possible.”

He looked worryingly to Lilith. “Is she drunk?”

And Lilith responded in time with, “I am the queen, I am the empress, _I am a whiskey goddess_.”

“It has been an incredibly long night,” Solas explained.

Vivienne looked more amused than anything; Dorian, just exasperated. “I told you to buy her a drink,” he stressed, “not the whole bloody _tavern_.”

Vivienne gave a disapproving hum. “Probably best not to let her clan see her so…presently indisposed,” she advised. “May I suggest an alternate route? I believe if you exit upstairs and to the left, you should have a clear path to the library.”

“Don’t send them to the library,” Dorian argued, “they do terrible things in the library.”

Solas scowled. “Stop telling people that; it was…stop telling people that.”

“Then don’t do it in my chair!”

“We didn’t-” Well. “…fine.”

He tried to maneuver past but had to duck back when Dorian leaned in close with suspiciously narrowed eyes. “…are you sure you’re feeling alright, Solas?”

“Fine,” he lied. _Not high_. “I…fine. I am fine. We’re fine.”

“I am super duper fucked up,” Lilith announced with her face still smashed against his chest. “But I am _living._ ”

“She’s fine,” he maintained. “Goodnight.”

Any interactions afterward were…spotty. Solas didn’t remember exactly how he got back to his room. Or, Lilith’s room. He remembered only falling back onto a plush bed and noting the startling amount of cobwebs on the ceiling above him. Surely they had someone to clean those.

“You sure we can just leave ‘em here?” Sera’s voice. Nearby, although his head was feeling a bit too heavy to check at the moment. Centuries, indeed.

He heard a low, rumbling laugh he recognized as Iron Bull. “It’s Lilith. Trust me; give her an hour, and she’ll be back up moving furniture.”

“You sure?”

“She’s the only person alive who can outdrink me—she’s fine.”

Then, Lilith’s voice, startling close to him: “M’better than fine, I’m _superb_.”

“See?” Bull said. “She’s superb.”

“Ugh, what about him, then?”

“Yeah, I’ve got less experience with that. But he’ll probably be fine. Unless he was trying to keep up with her.”

 _Well._ Solas meant to reply with a firm, _“I’m fine,”_ but instead just gave a brief groan. Frustrating.

The mattress shifted beside him. “ _Sera,_ ” Lilith called. A sweet, lilting singsong. “My tricksy golden-haired ferret maiden. I need you.”

“ _Pff,_ that’s a new one,” Sera giggled. “Yeah alright, whatsit, weirdy?”

“I want my cat.” She yawned, arms stretching upward with a decisive _pop,_ and rolled to bury her face in blankets. “Where’s Fen? Bring me my baby.”

 “What, are you daft? That stupid cat’s one of the reasons everything went to shit!”

“Don’t insult my cat; he’s just trying to live.”

“He’s a shit!”

“Leave him alone,” she mumbled urgently into her pillow. “Fen’Harel did nothing wrong.”

And Solas, floating dazed through some unreality, said, “ _Thank you._ ”

“If I find your stupid cat,” Sera grudgingly promised, “I’ll make sure to boot him through your door. Happy?”

“ _Ecstatic_.” The echo of footsteps abated, candlelight doused along the way. Another shout halted them halfway down the stairwell. “Bull, wait!”

“Yeah, boss?”

“Crack my back?”

A sigh. “Yeah, boss.”

Solas couldn’t remember everything about that night, but he remembered Lilith. Remembered falling asleep with his arms wrapped warm around her; the feeling of her curled beside him and the flush of red across her sleeping face. He remembered hazy remnants of caustic words— _selfish, strange, mad_ —and remembered very clearly wishing he could somehow make her unhear them. Lilith was bright and good and his, and she had to know that.

Didn’t she?

He dreamt that night of a stalking tiger with pearly teeth and amber eyes; of butterflies and hurricanes and a terrible, terrible weight. He dreamt he was sinking, and each struggling motion to stay afloat created ripples that swelled into crashing waves.

He dreamed, hazily, of Lilith.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> it's like your worst Thanksgiving but in a castle and somehow worse for it


	8. Chapter 8

Blackwall would never doubt the Inquisitor. Not after everything they’d been through; how far she’d brought them. How far she’d brought _him_. He would follow Lavellan to the ends of the earth if she asked him—without question, without hesitation. Would follow her to his death, if ever she required it. He truly believed that.

If nothing else, he had to believe that.

The day didn’t start out great, he’d grant that. He hadn’t planned to linger long in the great hall that morning. He meant only to grab something to eat and make a hasty retreat, mouth kept firmly _shut,_ but beneath the hum of ambient small talk he caught a snippet of conversation that gave him reason for pause.

“Bit ironic, isn’t it?” one elf noted offhand, stationed at a nearby table. “After all this, _we_ end up owing Lilith.”

His companion laughed beside him—a bitter sort of smirk—and Blackwall cautiously slowed.

“…ironic?” someone echoed back, confused. He recognized the voice as one of Leliana’s new agents—an elven woman by the name of Jana. The once would-be Warden who instead joined their ranks. Blackwall was there the day Lavellan recruited her in Crestwood. She sat across from the two, brows screwed together in thought. “How’s that, then?”

“That’s the right word, isn’t it?” he tested. “Like…funny, kind of. You know? Just unexpected.”

“I still don’t understand how it is no one objected to her being at Halamshiral,” his companion marveled. “Did they not recognize her? Or is there some sort of statute of limitations on these things?”

“Well they couldn’t very well arrest the _Inquisitor._ I imagine now that she’s got an army they don’t much care anymore.”

Blackwall got the distinct feeling he wasn’t supposed to be hearing this. Jana—bless her—at least seemed unconvinced. “Why would anyone want to arrest _Inquisitor Lavellan?_ ” she scoffed.

“Because she’s not supposed to be in Orlais,” they explained, exasperated. “Technically none of us are, thanks to her. Or…were? Still a bit foggy on that.”

“I…I’m afraid I don’t follow.”

“Because they exiled her,” he said, as if that was the most obvious thing in the world. “Crimes against the Empire, all that.”

Jana gave a skeptical _hmph,_ arms firmly crossed. “You’re telling tales.”

“Think what you like, but there’s a reason we never come this far south. No Lavellan has been welcome in Orlais since Lilith got ahold of it. How do you think we got stuck in the Free Marches? _Creators,_ it’s what made Roshan want to boot her out of the clan.”

“You all did _what?_ You kicked her out? Like… _banished,_ or something?”

“We didn’t do it. Obviously. She was just, you know, _going_ to be. The Keeper wouldn’t stand for it; said if Lilith left, she’d leave with her. It was a whole big to-do; nearly split the clan in half. Roshan’s still not over it. But I mean…a lot of other clans cut us off, too, you know? It wasn’t just about Orlais. That was just kind of…the last straw, sort of thing. We’re all so spread apart as it is, and Lilith was…well she’s been doing pretty alright now, but it used to be different, is all. You’ve all got an army and a castle, but we only had _us_ , and she didn’t make any less enemies back then. It was just…hard, is all.”

Jana didn’t say anything at first. Just nodded, frown tight, and gave a noncommittal hum. “So what did she do, anyway?”

“You think _we_ know what she gets up to? Friend, if that were the case, we might have actually been successful in getting rid of her.”

Then a new voice interjected, one far too familiar, and Blackwall shrank back a step further.

“Oh, I know damn well what she did,” the clan’s warleader said. “I think Roshan’s still got the wanted posters somewhere. If Deshanna hasn’t burned them. Lilith-”

He never got to finish. An airborne bread roll launched across the table with expert precision and smacked him right in the forehead before he even finished his sentence. Velriel and Blackwall both turned and stared in twin dismay at the guilty party: an uncharacteristically shaken-looking Leliana.

“Oh,” she said without the slightest tinge of dismay. “My mistake.”

Blackwall didn’t stick around for the commotion that followed. If the bags beneath Lady Josephine’s eyes were anything to go by, though, he assumed it didn’t go well.

Leliana approached him later that morning, a looming shadow in an otherwise empty corridor, and hissed the warning, _“You heard nothing.”_

“No idea what you’re talking about,” Blackwall had replied. “I haven’t spoken to a soul all morning.”

He remembered the careful tilt to Leliana’s nod—the wary narrowing of her eyes. “Yes,” she agreed. “Good.”

They did not speak of the incident again.

* * *

 

He told Lilith once that she’d have made a good Warden. They’d been clearing darkspawn out of some caverns on the coast, supplies dangerously low, and Lavellan had just cut down a Hurlock with the broken end of someone else’s sword. Blackwall nodded to the chain she’d wound around her fist, a makeshift gauntlet still smeared in tainted blood. “Wardens would survive a lot more battles if they thought like you,” he’d said.

He still remembered the way she laughed. A thin, brittle sound that came too quick.

“Wardens who think like me,” she said, “don’t stay Wardens for very long.”

Blackwall hadn’t thought much on that at the time. Had only chuckled, and moved on. Now though, midway through the third day of their visit, he couldn’t quite _stop_ thinking about it.

_Wardens who think like me…_

A smart man would not have tempted fate a second time, but as he’d already fantastically proven, a smart man Blackwall was not. He invited his next misfortune entirely upon himself. This time though felt somehow more…necessary.

They’d been talking between themselves. Two of Lavellan’s clansmen, hushed in the late noon sun. It would have been easy for Blackwall to ignore them, but…

“The mad elven Inquisitor,” he heard someone snicker. “Now isn’t _that_ the reputation we needed.”

His companion tutted beside him. “Oh, come now,” she reprimanded, “that’s not fair. Not like she can help that.”

Blackwall knew this wouldn’t end well, but silence had ended no better. “Help what?” he chimed in to ask.

The elves shared an uneasy glance, startled by the intrusion. They took a slow moment to consider their answer.

The woman very carefully cleared her throat. “Oh. Um. I didn’t mean…we don’t have a problem with that. The Dalish, I mean. Blood is blood; she’s still a Lavellan. That’s fine. It’s just…a challenge, that was all he meant.”

“A challenge.” Blackwall echoed the word with a face of stone. “Right.”

“I mean you know how she gets,” the other prodded. “Awake at all hours of the night, flitting around like someone’s set her on fire. And then just kind of…gone, you know? Well she’s just not…” He trailed off to tap a finger to his temple. “-right, is all.”

“Mad,” Blackwall blankly repeated, and the word felt venomous. “That was what you said.”

“I mean. Just a touch. But that’s… Well she was always a bit _off_. You know. Talked out loud a lot. To herself, or…I don’t know. Things. Always murmuring under her breath. Spooky little thing. Was no surprise to anyone when she first went batty.”

“ _Souren,_ ” the woman hissed, tone sharp with warning. “That’s _enough._ ”

“Well it’s not like they don’t _know_.” When he looked back to Blackwall, though, it was with a far less confident gaze. “…or. Ah.”

Blackwall would rather not answer that. “Just interested in her clan’s opinion,” he offered instead. “…is that what the Dalish would call her, then? Mad?”

It took far too long for them to answer that. “I don’t know if… It’s just that- Ah. Well…” He looked to his companion for help, but her lips stayed firmly sealed. “…Roshan says there’s an anger in her that’s twisted up her mind,” he explained. “Like a darkness. You know? Like…a taint, sort of.”

“And _Deshanna_ ,” the other corrected with a cautionary tug on his sleeve, “says she’ll skin the next person she hears repeat that, so probably best not to go around _shouting_ it to anyone who asks.” When she looked back to Blackwall it was with a stare more cautiously guarded. “Apologies,” she offered. “But we should be on our way.”

They slipped off without waiting for a response, but that was fine. There was nothing more Blackwall wanted to hear.

He thought back to that day in the caverns with an anxious tightness in his chest. _Wardens who think like me,_ she’d said, and Blackwall silently finished: _are sent to the Deep Roads to die._

* * *

 

He’d admit he was a little surprised when he made his way down to the stables and found Iron Bull waiting. He greeted Blackwall with a curt nod and a brief, muttered “ _Hey_.”

“You get banned from the tavern now?” he chided, but Bull didn’t laugh.

“Sure,” he said. “Something like that. You want to get a drink or something? Or…I don’t know, _walk?_ Somewhere _not_ here?”

Blackwall broke the trust of a lot of good people with his confession. Lost a lot of good friends, too. Iron Bull had been one of the few whose opinion of him didn’t plummet, which was…a tad unexpected, if he was being honest. Nice, though. They’d never been especially close, but Blackwall appreciated that at least one other person was still willing to share a drink with him. It used to be that was the extent of their interactions—a pint in the tavern, maybe swap a few wholly exaggerated battle tales. But then the business with the dreadnought happened and…well. Things were just different, after.

An odd thing it is, seeing someone wear the same shade of regret as you. Comforting, in an eerie sort of way. Few understood what it meant to be cut off from their past. To have to find a new way. Be a new person. To start over, alone, and know there was no home to go back to. Blackwall would never wish that weight upon another, but he’d admit he didn’t mind the company.

Blackwall had so many war stories that he could never rightly tell in a tavern—ugly, shameful things, like little flashes of a nightmare. Tales never meant to entertain. Horrors from a life he wasn’t even sure he could call his anymore. That night after the mess on the coast, Blackwall sat down next to Bull with a fresh pitcher of ale and told him a story of a man he’d once let die under his command. An ugly glimpse of a memory he regretted. One more soul lost at the work of his hands.

Bull had nodded, silent, and slowly downed the last of his drink. _“…you wanna hear something even more fucked up?”_ he’d offered. _“I bet I can beat that.”_

He found himself seeing a fair share more of Bull after that.

“A walk sounds grand,” Blackwall agreed. “And ‘not here’ sounds even grander.”

The only peaceful corner of Skyhold left was ironically its prison. Lovely view, despite the rubble. Although the rows of gaping cells were a tad eerie. For all the vicious talk of her, Lavellan actually imprisoned very few. Skyhold’s cells were only ever used to hold prisoners until their judgement, which more often than not translated to service. Maker, even _Alexius_ escaped the axe in favor of conscripted research work in their ranks. Lavellan was a bloody whirlwind on the battlefield but on the throne she was…perhaps ‘merciful’ wasn’t quite the word. _Calculating,_ maybe.

How was it she liked to put it?

_“Even bad people can be put to good use.”_

Except that magister from Adamant. _Livius Erimond_. The man who twisted the Wardens into something they were never meant to be. Never _wanted_ to be.

No prison cell was ever needed for him. Lilith beheaded him herself.

“So,” Bull announced, and the boom of his voice echoed through the cavernous chamber. “Fuck this reunion, right?”

“Aptly put,” Blackwall granted.

“Just going to throw this out there, but maybe the Qun has a point with the whole ‘no family’ thing.”

“You know they’re not actually all related, right?”

“ _Whatever._ Just… We should definitely go kill something once this is over. Are there any dragons left? I’m willing to travel.”

“Dunno about dragons. _Giants,_ though—we could probably manage to find a few of those.”

“Giants will work. Just give me something big to hit.”

Yes. Blackwall could certainly agree with that sentiment.

For a moment he almost didn’t bring it up.

“So I was talking to some of Lilith’s people,” he finally broke. There wasn’t really a better way to say the rest. “…they called her mad, you know.”

“ _Stop_.” An order spoken with the weight of a threat. “I know where you’re going with this, and take my advice: don’t.” Something hardened in his eye. Darkened. “Lilith’s not crazy.”

“Didn’t say she was. Just that her people seemed worried.”

“And I’m saying she’s sure as shit not _mad_ , so maybe watch it with that kind of talk. I mean that’s- Look. I’ve seen crazy. I _know_ crazy. Dealing with crazy used to be my _job_. Lilith’s…” He ended with a frustrated growl. “A little damaged, sure, but it’s not…it’s not a problem. Whatever she is, she does her job. She protects her people.”

“And who are her people?”

“ _We are,_ ” he bit back. “And it’s about time we returned the favor.”

“Alright, fine. I meant no offense.” Blackwall surrendered without protest, hands raised in defeat. “I won’t speak of it. Consider it forgotten.”

“Fucking _good_.”

They stood in silence until Blackwall cleared his throat and cautiously asked, “You ever think about what’d happen if she lived under your Qun?”

“First, it’s not mine. And second, it’s…hm. Look, the Qun is complicated. It’s a good system for a lot of people. But it doesn’t work for everyone, and it wasn’t built to handle people like Lilith.”

“You think they’d have broken her?” he asked, but Bull shook his head.

“Nah. It wouldn’t work like that. Trying to break Lilith would be like trying to bite a diamond in half. You’d break your teeth before you ever cracked it. They would have…well. I don’t really know. I’d say they’d kill her, but that’s not giving Lilith enough credit. I don’t know what would happen. But it wouldn’t be good.”

“Come on, you’ve already thought out how everyone _else_ would fare under the Qun—you can’t tell me you haven’t thought about Lilith.”

“No, I’ve thought about it. I just don’t have an answer for you. The Qun is…unique. It’s like being a block of stone with a sculptor working on you. One day, the last of the crap gets knocked off, and you can see your real shape, what you’re supposed to be. But Lilith is…something else. I think only she knows what her shape is, and it’s not something that can be chiseled, you know? She’s not…” He sighed. “Lilith isn’t stone. That’s the problem. She’s like water—this kind of shifting, adaptable thing that goes where it wants. She already knows what she is. What she’s supposed to be. And it’s not something anyone else can shape. The system would break trying to deal with her. And at this point? I don’t know whether or not that’d be a bad thing.”

Blackwall slowly nodded. “Are you ever mad at her for getting you declared Tal-Vashoth?”

“No, that wasn’t…no.”

“You sure about that?”

“ _Yeah,_ ” he maintained, sharper. “I’m sure. The Qun is- was… _mm_. It gives you a purpose. A use. But I don’t know. Maybe that’s not me anymore. I can be alright with that.”

“Not afraid of turning savage still?”

That answer took a beat longer. “I was,” he granted. “Maybe still am, a little. The Qun gives you a purpose, so when you take that away it’s like…what the shit am I supposed to do now? Who am I even supposed to _be_ now? What are you if not what you’ve been built to be?”

And yes, Blackwall felt he could very much understand that. “She have any answers for you, then?”

“Who, Lilith? As much as she ever does I guess. So… _maybe?”_ He stared hard at the ceiling, jaw tense. “She just said…people are always their own. For better or worse. That that’s why systems built to control them will never be perfect—because you can manipulate a person, but you can’t _be_ them. Can’t live for them. In the end they’re always their own, and they’ll be who they need to be. I asked how she knew ‘the true me’ wasn’t some bloodthirsty asshole, and she  _laughed_. Said, ‘Is that who you want to be?’ Never actually answered my question. I think that was the point.”

“She ever tell you what your new purpose is?”

The best Bull could muster was a shaky sort of wave. “ _‘Do you.’_ That was it. I asked how and she just shrugged and said, ‘However works.’ I guess that kind of stuck with me. I mean shit, that might just be the vaguest order I’ve ever been issued. But I can work with it.” He glanced Blackwall’s way with a more critical stare. “You ever mad she forgave you?”

“Sometimes,” he admitted. “Not proud of it.”

“Ever mad she didn’t just sentence you to the Wardens? Give you some kind of poetic justice?”

“Briefly. I asked her about it, once. Why she didn’t just give me the end I deserved. She said, ‘You’ve still got good left to give. The world deserves to see it.’ I think about that often.”

“What do you think she saw?”

“Don’t know. But I figure I owe it to her to try for it.” To the ends of the earth, if she required it. “…she’ll be alright, though? Assuming we all survive this end-of-the-world business. She’ll be…okay?”

“Who, boss? Yeah, she’ll be fine.”

“She deserves a lot better than fine.”

“Yeah, well. Sometimes fine’s a fuckin’ accomplishment.”

And Maker, if that wasn’t the truth. “…you think we’ll be fine?” he ventured. “At some point?”

Bull only laughed. “Here’s hoping, big guy.”

* * *

 

He tried to ask Cole about it, later. Not out of _doubt,_ just, well…

He never did get that answer.

The boy hadn’t been much help, though. He’d only frowned, head twisting downward, and answered with a weakly trailing “ _Yes?_ ”

“Is that a question?”

“No,” he tried to explain, “she’s _‘alright,’_ just…she would probably like if someone brought her tea.”

Which was an answer, he supposed. Perhaps just…not the one he’d hoped for.

That evening was more blur than proper memory. Late into the night Blackwall vaguely remembered hearing Vivienne and Dorian confront a very drunk Inquisitor and her miraculously drunker paramour somewhere out in the tavern, but couldn’t hear the conversation. Once the two stumbled off, though, he heard the distinctive ring of Vivienne’s voice as the door to Sera’s room swung swiftly open.

“The Inquisitor needs assistance,” she announced. She called Bull’s name at the same instant Dorian called for Sera. They shared a quick, quizzical stare, and asked in near-perfect unison, “ _Really?_ ”

“She’s not afraid of getting dirty,” Dorian explained. “And/or vomited on.”

“He’s tall,” Vivienne countered. “And can probably carry both of them.”

In the end they sent them both. Blackwall would have volunteered himself, had he been a bit more…not drunk. (He made an urgent mental note: _stop drinking with Sera._ ) Really, though, if any blighted day called for a strong drink…

There wasn’t much more of the night he remembered. He ended up falling asleep propped against Sera’s bed (bench?), and awoke early morning draped in a quilt with Sera snoring near his head. His hangover, he noted with a groan, was _spectacular_.

He gave Sera a tentative tap on the shoulder. “…you awake?”

Her response came in the form of a muffled groan, face hidden beneath a sleep-matted explosion of blonde hair. “ _Nmmn. Phhhhmm_.”

“Hm. Thought as much.” He glanced around the empty room with a frown. “I know we’re not talking about Lilith, but, ah…you’re not worried, right? I mean we’re not…concerned.”

But she’d already started snoring again.

“…right then,” he agreed. “Me either.”

Without another word he carefully stuffed a pillow beneath Sera’s drooping head, pulled her curtains closed, and limped out to face the dawn of day four.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> whenever my day's been shit I come back on here and re-read y'alls comments and feel Instantly Better so like. Damn man thank you. Just DAMN _hwow_ ༼ งಥل͟ಥ ༽ง I don't even have a fitting emoji for it; just picture that face times, like, 200%. Just. _hhwoow ok_


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am fueled by your comments omg thank you  
>  I LIVE (ಥ﹏ಥ)

Solas awoke that morning with a pounding headache and far too foggy a recollection of the previous night. Lilith, predictably, was already awake. She balanced on the edge of the bed, already dressed and whistling some tuneless song as she laced up the leather foot bindings she so loathed. “Morning,” she greeted, sounding far too sprightly for his liking.

Solas rolled to bury his face in his pillow, head throbbing. “I made a mistake,” he groaned. A horrid, horrid mistake.

“Yeah,” she agreed. “Wine hangovers will do that.”

“How are you _functioning?_ ”

“Honestly, that could be the title of my autobiography.” She stood, hands stationed purposefully on her hips, and Solas couldn’t help but feel a bitter twinge of resentment.

Perhaps his grasp of tact and control was not as firm as he previously thought.

 _Fenedhis,_ he was too old for this...

“Maybe stick to clear alcohol next time,” she advised, and slid a tall cup of water closer atop the bedside table. “Just a tip.”

“Such boundless wisdom,” he cracked. “Is there any other sage advice you wish to impart?”

She leaned down to press a quick kiss to his pounding head, laughter rumbling low in her throat. “Don’t underestimate me,” she warned.

Sound advice, truly.

“Hey, remember when Dorian asked if you were feeling well last night and you responded with ‘I fine?’ Because boy do I.”

Solas couldn’t even muster the energy to properly glare; instead only gave a long, defeated sigh. “How do you even _remember_ that?”

“Superior memory, obviously. Mind like a steel trap.”

“You were barely conscious.”

“A barely conscious steel trap is still a steel trap.” She ripped the blankets off him in one swift tug. “Now come on; up and at ‘em, mom.”

“You _have_ to stop that.”

“Dad.”

“ _Lilith,_ ” he pleaded. “ _Please._ ”

If there truly was a great omnipotent deity in existence, Solas prayed, desperately, for some kind of assistance. Corypheus may not kill him but trying to keep a step ahead of Lavellan most definitely would, if this was going to be the trend.

And then the morning just kept getting better.

Lilith had barely stepped foot in the great hall before a madly grinning Sera waved her down with the gleeful shout, “Oi! _Orvunin!_ ”

“Oh my god.” Lilith blanched, lips pulled back in an exaggerated grimace. “ _No._ It’s _Oruvunen,_ and _why?_ ”

Solas blinked. “…Oruvunen?”

“It’s her _name!_ ” Sera cackled. “Or like…her secret elfy one. _Hah._ ”

“That’s not how it works,” Lilith insisted, “and I’m at least 70% sure you know that. Who told you?”

“Who’d you think? Varric, obviously. I mean he’s the only one that knows anything about you now, right?”

In lieu of a reply Lilith only shot a scathing glare the dwarf’s direction and uttered a single, low word: “ _Varric._ ”

At the other end of the hall, Varric waved. “Sorry, Killer,” he called. “I had to.”

“I will _punt you over a wall,_ tiny man.”

“What are you, like two inches taller than me?”

“ _Over a wall,_ ” she vowed.

Sera laughed so hard she snorted. “ _Oruvenen,_ ” she howled. “Can I call you Orvy for short?”

“You monster. Shut _up_. No one actually uses those names. They’re like…weird, formal family names. It’s just a lineage thing; it’s not something you _answer_ to. There’s not really an equivalent here.”

“Oh, oh, no—how ‘bout _Veny!_ ”

“I will not respond to any of those, and you can eat my entire ass.”

Sera looked downright _victorious,_ face split in a triumphant grin. “I knew you had to have some elfy-elf name! _Knew it!_ ”

“It’s not a- damn it. What if I started calling you _Emmald?_ Or _Denerim?_ ”

“But you can’t, ‘cause I’m not all elfy-whatever! _Hah!_ ”

Lilith groaned into her hands. “You asshole. Watch it or I’ll give _you_ an elfy name. You could be Isera. Or Misera. Or maybe _Sora_.”

“Ugh, gross, not even.” She elbowed her in the side, giggling. “Sorry, _Orvy_ —you’re stuck with it.”

Solas opened his mouth to comment and was swiftly silenced by a pointed glare from Lilith. “Don’t you dare,” she warned. “This is not open for discussion.”

“I meant only to remind you that your advisors still request your presence.”

“Oh, god. Right. That.” She stared at the door to Josephine’s office with the look of a woman at the gallows. “Any chance I can just send you in my place?”

“I’m afraid not.”

“Well. Want to at least accompany me?”

 _That_ he may actually be able to do.

Lilith backed up a step, smile growing into a devious grin. “Oh, wait, stay there; I’m gonna take a running leap and you can catch me.”

“Do not do that.”

“Aw, come on. Bull catches me!”

“ _Do not._ ”

Sera chimed in far too enthusiastically. “I can catch her.”

“No,” Solas corrected, “you cannot.”

“I can _sorta_ catch her…”

“Such a killjoy,” Lilith remarked with a roll of her eyes. “Where’s your sense of reckless abandon?”

Solas remained unmoved. “Did Josephine not bar you from doing that?”

“Why would she-”

“You broke a table.”

“Technically _Dorian_ broke the table,” she pointed out. “And I’ll admit I may have misjudged that time. I thought his reflexes would be better.”

“And Blackwall.”

“His reflexes _definitely_ should have been better. It’s not like I’m heavy.” She took a moment to reconsider that statement. “…it’s not like I’m _that_ heavy.”

She was _deceptively_ heavy, actually, but Solas decided not to voice that particular observation. Tact hadn’t _entirely_ abandoned him. Yet.

He cleared his throat. “I believe your advisors are waiting.”

“That they are,” she sadly agreed, and cast a quick glance in the direction of the kitchen. “But first I’ll need to prepare.”

She ran and jumped anyway, of course.

He did not catch her.

* * *

Leliana was good at her job. No—Leliana was _outstanding_ at her job. She’d accomplished enough to earn that distinction. But…well.

Everyone was entitled to at least _one_ bad day, were they not?

Of course Josephine found out about Velriel’s comments. Leliana had delayed the news, but could never eradicate its source. Someone somewhere said something else, and that was inevitable. She had to tell herself it was inevitable.

She could _not_ have failed here.

By noon the first wave of agents was sent out. By sunset reports already started arriving. An emergency meeting was called, and Cassandra was sent out to bring Lavellan in so she could explain to her advisors why she’d apparently been _exiled_ from an _empire_. Cullen was aghast, but Josephine seemed only exhausted. _Leliana,_ meanwhile, felt…

Hmm.

The war table meeting that morning was uncharacteristically grim. Leliana slowly rifled through a yellowed stack of papers. Some of her agents’ newest findings—details Leliana had yet to read herself. Her shoulders sunk.

“I don’t understand,” she said, carefully re-reading the same sentence for the fourth time. “I should have heard about this ages ago. I should have known-”

“It’s Lavellan,” Cullen cut in to remind. “There is no ‘should’ with that woman.”

“I would have heard about it,” she insisted. “Or else she…she would have told me.” Her expression fell, the corners of her lips weighted down by a horrid tug of betrayal. “We’re close.”

Josephine cleared her throat and uneasily continued with her report. “We have dug up old records of a woman that could match Lavellan’s description, but any more than that is difficult to tell. The best I could find was an arrest record of a young elven woman charged with…a few different crimes, a little over five years ago. Unfortunately, the descriptions of her are lacking.”

“Which I’m sure is what she was counting on,” Cullen remarked. “Orlesians see Dalish elves as little more than backward savages; of course they wouldn’t keep detailed records on them. ‘Tattooed forest elf’ is probably the most descriptive account you’ll find.”

“What were the charges against her, exactly?”

“That’s where it gets a _bit_ more complicated, I’m afraid,” Josephine admitted. “Assuming this _is_ Mistress Lavellan—which I feel I should remind you we cannot confirm—she was accused of…a few things.”

“Such as?”

“Theft,” she uneasily supplied, “multiple counts of assault, inciting a riot, suspected arson… There are…a few murder charges. Three Templars. A nobleman. It seems there was an altercation in an elven alienage that resulted in casualties, although the specifics are vague. A Circle tower was nearly burned to the ground, along with two separate Orlesian estates.”

“ _Complicated,_ ” Cullen echoed with a scoff. “That’s one word.”

“Regardless,” Josephine continued, “all accounts say she was killed while escaping arrest. It cannot have been Lavellan.”

Leliana peered over her shoulder with a grim frown, scanning the papers. “It says ‘presumed dead,’” she corrected. “It also says she ripped a guard’s ear off with her teeth.”

“That’s Lilith,” Cullen decided. “It has to be.”

Josephine could only sigh. “If that _is_ the case, then… Well. I suppose that would explain why no one has come to arrest her—as far as Orlais is concerned, she’s been dead for some time.”

“What then, you think she faked her own death?”

“You said it yourself,” Leliana reminded. “Orlesians can hardly tell Dalish elves apart. It would not be difficult for them to mistakenly identify the wrong body.”

“In which case our Inquisitor is a wanted criminal,” Cullen finished. “Maker’s breath, _Lilith_ … How is it no one at the Winter Palace recognized her?”

“Why would they?” Leliana asked. “Elves are all but invisible, and the ones they do acknowledge may as well be interchangeable. Besides, it was years ago, and she very well could have disguised herself. Even if, by some small miracle, someone at court did recognize her, officially she’s deceased. It would be mad to accuse the leader of the Inquisition of a dead woman’s crimes. Celene is our ally; attacking Lavellan would be seen as an attack against the Empress.”

“It would be their word against hers,” Josephine said. “And at this point, the Inquisitor’s word is all but law.”

Cullen sighed, forehead dropped despairingly into his hand. “I don’t understand. I thought she was exiled?”

Josephine, suspiciously, said nothing.

“There’s more,” Cullen stated, “isn’t there?”

“I wanted to start with the better of the two.”

“There’s worse than _presumed dead?_ ”

“There was another incident two year before,” she grudgingly continued. “The reports are similar—a young Dalish woman, fitting Lavellan’s description, operating alone in Orlais. She caused some brief trouble in Halamshiral, but as far as I could decipher, was never formally arrested. But…”

“But?”

“She _may_ have been implicated in the murder of a duke.”

“ _Maker,_ ” Cullen marveled, “how did she manage to escape execution for that?”

“Simply put, they could not prove her guilt. There were no witnesses, nothing left behind. She was, however, the last to arguably see him alive. His servants found him the next morning crushed to death beneath one of his own safes. A rather… _ironic_ demise, considering his fortunes.” At Cullen’s horrified expression she added the amendment, “Not that I condone it. Of course.”

“What was she doing with a _duke?_ ”

“His servants claim she was hired for the evening under the guise of a…dancer.”

“What kind of…?”

“A _private_ dancer,” she amended. “…surely you can understand why we would rather keep this news from spreading.”

If Cullen didn’t wipe that Maker-forsaken look of horror from his face, Leliana would happily give him something _real_ to fear.

“What happens when everyone finds out about this?” he demanded, and Leliana’s glare turned venomous.

“They _won’t,_ ” she stated. “We shall make sure of that.”

“You realize helping to cover up her crimes makes us complicit by association,” Josephine pointed out, but Leliana stood firm.

“Lavellan is our Inquisitor. And our _friend_. It is our duty to protect her, no matter the cost.”

“She’s wanted for _murder_.”

“She would do the same for us, and you know it.” Cullen and Josephine exchanged doubtful looks, but neither protested. “We will handle this,” Leliana went on. “And Lavellan never has to find out. Maker, at least not now.”

“This isn’t…we can’t just _ignore_ this,” Cullen argued. “We’re not talking about a few petty theft charges, the woman was exiled from an _empire_. And then _killed,_ apparently—or at least as far as Orlais is concerned. We could be talking about _treason_ , for all we know.”

“Tell me, Commander, what were you doing during your time in Kirkwall? Remind me again where you were when the mage rebellion began.”

“That’s not the same thing,” he insisted. “I’m not saying we should arrest the woman, just…well we can’t do _nothing_. She has a whole other life we don’t even know about. It begs the question—who was Lilith five years ago? Who is she today? Maker, who will she be _tomorrow?_ Maybe we should…” He sighed. “Maybe we should get Varric and Cassandra.”

“We will absolutely not!” Leliana protested. “It was bad enough that you involved Cassandra, but to even _consider_ …! The Council is only to be invoked in the direst of emergencies—death, or possession, or…”

“Questionable judgement,” he supplied.

“That is _not_ what it is for. When Lavellan put the Council into place she meant it only as a failsafe in the event she was ever compromised. It is an emergency backup plan to distribute control; it is not for petty _chastisement!_ ”

“We will _not_ assemble the Council,” Josephine agreed. “This is not a failure. And you should not have told Cassandra.”

“Maker, I didn’t write up a report—we were _talking._ I was _concerned_. I never meant to suggest we should _overthrow_ the woman, just that...I don’t know, they should at least be made aware of it!”

“The Council is a _failsafe,_ not a gossip circle!”

“She murdered someone!”

“So have you!” Leliana spat. “So have I! Maker, so has _Josie!_ Would you have us tried and overthrown as well?”

“I never said-” He finished in a sigh. “I never meant to imply I don’t trust her. I just…worry for her. That’s all. She trusted the five of us enough to grant us the power to overrule her; surely we’d be better equipped than any to at least _discuss_ this.”

“There is nothing to discuss,” she insisted, but Cullen was far from convinced.

He snatched up a crumpled paper to scan with a frown. “Surely there’s more documentation than this.”

“Normally there would be, yes. Unfortunately, much of it was lost in a rather… _serendipitous_ archive fire.”

“Maker,” Cullen groaned. “ _Lilith_ …”

“That one can’t be proved,” Leliana pointed out.

Cullen could only weakly glare. “So that accounts for, what, a year? Two? Out of how many left unaccounted for? Clearly she wasn’t with her clan this whole time. What if we discover reports like this all over Thedas?”

“And how would we do that?” Leliana hissed. “Look for incidents where the scales of justice were ever so slightly tipped in the favor of the oppressed? You’re asking to track the path of chaos.”

“You would call her crimes works of justice?”

“And what if I did?” she challenged. “You were ready enough to believe she was Andraste’s Herald; why is it so impossible a notion for her actions to be divine?”

“We’re aiding and abetting a known criminal,” he insisted. “You can’t just shrug it off under the pretense that ‘she probably meant well.’ It’s not as simple as that. You…!” He trailed off, eyes narrowing. “…did you know about any of this?”

“A…bit,” she admitted.

“ _Leliana!_ ”

“Only bits,” she insisted. “And they did not seem pertinent at the time.” She added in a hushed murmur, “I did not know it was a _duke_.”

“You’re the _Spymaster!_ It’s your _job_ to share those things! I mean…” He shoved back to anxiously pace. “Maker, and you never thought to say anything? Were there ever even records made, or did you destroy them?”

“They were told to me in confidence,” she argued. “It wasn’t an _investigation;_ it was a private affair between _friends_.”

“Well it’s a bit more pertinent _now,_ isn’t it?”

Leliana glared. “Fine,” she snapped. “Then you can tell her.”

“I will.”

“Good!”

“Fine!”

“Go on then—inform your Inquisitor that you no longer trust her to lead us. The woman who sealed the Breach, who saved _countless_ lives, yours included. The woman you all swore service to. I’m sure that is _precisely_ what she needs to hear today.”

“It is,” he maintained. “I will.”

He did not. Lilith strolled in late midmorning looking somehow more sleep-deprived than usual, silvery hair twisted back in a messy bun that was already steadily falling apart. She balanced four steaming cups of tea atop an armful of papers. Before Cullen could even properly clear his throat he was silenced by the offer of a teacup.

“Morning, babes,” she greeted. She nodded to the tea balanced in her hand. “Chamomile for stress. I’m getting a head start.”

“I…er. Thank you. But…”

“Heard you wanted to see me last night,” she went on. “I would’ve come sooner, but I was busy getting sad-drunk. You know how it is.” She picked through her teetering collection of tea to hand a chipped cup to Leliana. “Lemon with honey for Leli, and lavender with rosewater for Josie.”

Josephine accepted her cup with the saddest smile Leliana had ever seen. “You remembered the rosewater.”

Lilith always remembered.

“So,” she asked, “what’d you want to talk to me about?”

Cullen broke. “Nothing,” he lied. “I, ah…there’s a few documents that need your signature by the end of the week. That’s all.”

“…that’s what all the urgency was about?”

“Yes,” he maintained. “I, um. I just wanted you to know.”

As soon as Lavellan left Leliana pinned their Commander with a smirking stare. “I know,” he defended. “…maybe next week.”

“Perhaps next year,” Josephine corrected.

“Or better—never.”

“That would be _irresponsible,_ Leliana,” Josephine chastised. “It is our duty as Lavellan’s advisors to address such matters swiftly and justly.” She gathered up her spread of papers, tapped them evenly atop the war table, and handed the stack to Leliana. “…unless they get misplaced, of course.”

“Misplaced,” she echoed. She glanced to Cullen, who could only give a tired sort of shrug.

“And perhaps forgotten,” he said.

With a nod and the smallest quirk of a smile, Leliana marched off to toss them into the fire.

“Just so you’re aware,” she said, “the duke had it coming.”

* * *

Yes, Solas heard about the exile. Among other things.

No, he would not be bringing it up any time soon. Or _ever,_ ideally. Lilith was prone to divulge information only when an equivalent exchange was made, and there was no possible way Solas could do that. Better, then, not to say anything at all.

For now.

He noticed her Keeper paying special attention to him. Tracking. Trying subtly to get him alone. So far he’d managed to avoid her, but he knew that couldn’t last forever. At some point he’d actually have to speak to her, and _then_ …

He’d really rather not.

Dealing with people who hated Lilith was a chore, surely, but somehow the thought of dealing with someone who loved her seemed far more trying. He would rather not dwell on why that was. Instead he did something far, far stupider.

“Forgive me,” he greeted. “I do not believe we were ever introduced.”

“Mirae,” the woman before him offered. She politely extended her hand. “A bit late, but it’s very nice to meet you.”

Solas had encountered her and her _friend_ the first day of the reunion. She’d been one of the first to speak to him. “Er…sorry about Elera,” she said. “From, ah…earlier. She’s just…well she’s a bit of an ass, is what she is. Still bitter about that husband of hers. Not that that was- Lilith didn’t do that. I mean not _really_. Although the aravel kind of was her fault.” She scratched nervously at her wrist. “Sorry. This whole reunion business is a bit much to take in.”

“I can imagine.” He’d sought her out intentionally. Although whether or not that was entirely _wise_ had yet to be revealed. “...your companion made a comment about Lilith being ‘not all elf,’ if I remember correctly. I had hoped you could elaborate.”

“Oh, that? It’s just a stupid joke.” But the anxious way she clasped her hands said something different. “Really, it doesn’t mean anything.”

“No, I’m curious—what is it you think she is, exactly?”

“Well…it’s just stupid gossip and the like, none of it’s _true_. And I told you, Elera’s a right _ass_ sometimes. It was a stupid thing to say.”

“But you believe it.”

“I don’t know,” she admitted. “Maybe. I mean, maybe her great-grandmother was a shem? Like, way far back? Or, something.”

“Why would you possibly think that?”

Mirae looked baffled. “Look at her, right? Kind of…pointy. Not that that’s _bad,_ just. She got that nose from _somewhere_. Plus…” She trailed off, anxious, and didn’t speak until Solas nodded for her to continue. “People say all sorts of things. Most of it’s nonsense, you know, but they still _talk_. And _some_ people like to spread very rude rumors that Lilith’s…ah. Well.” It took far longer for her to decide on her next words. When she finally did her voice was hushed; careful. “They say there’s…sinister beings, of sorts, that disguise their own as elven children. That they snatch your child up in the night and replace it with theirs, because they want to be _people_. So instead of an elven baby you end up with…something else. _Someone_ else.”

“And you actually believe that?”

“ _No,_ ” she was quick to defend. “No, no, of course not. Superstitious rubbish, that. But I’m just saying—maybe her first clan believed it. You know?”

No. He did not know. “I thought her original clan was attacked.”

“No one really knows, but…it’s just a bit strange we never heard anything about them, isn’t it? If they were close enough for Lilith to find her way to us then you’d think we’d have caught wind of a massacre. Just…odd. At times you have to wonder why she was alone in the first place.”

Solas wasn’t sure he’d ever hated elves more. A truly impressive feat on their part. “Yes,” he said. “Odd.”

“I don’t hate her, you know.”

“I’m sorry?”

“Lilith. I don’t hate her or anything. A lot of people probably think I do, but she’s never done anything wrong by me. Not on purpose. Sometimes people are just…dealt a bloody awful hand, you know? Sometimes you’re just set up to lose.” She glanced over her shoulder with a pursed frown. “I should really be going. It was nice meeting you, though. Sorry about Elera.”

She didn’t so much _leave_ as she did _retreat_.

Solas wondered if he may have made a mistake after all.

* * *

Iron Bull was not paid _nearly_ enough for this shit.

Honestly, it was a damn good thing he’d been in the tavern, or else the Inquisition would have at least one dead guest on their hands. Thankfully Sera was not subtle. Bull heard a shrill, furious cry of “You fully-qualified _fuckbucket!_ ” and knew pretty immediately his assistance would be required.

He managed to snag Sera by the waist before she could go for her bow, still flinging nonsense curses at a terrified group of elves, and slung her over his shoulder with a firm “ _Nope._ ” He gave the room a quick, apologetic wave, and hauled her swearing out the front door.

“Get off!” She hammered her fists against his shoulder with the fervor of a warrior and the effectiveness of a toddler. “Put me _down,_ you big arse! I’ve got to _feed someone their frigging tongue!_ ”

“Which is kind of why I picked you up in the first place.”

“ _He earned it!_ ”

He didn’t set her down until they were well away from the tavern, but apparently her voice carried. Blackwall came bounding up the stairs from the yard below, looking ashen. “What happened?”

Sera landed a purposeful smack to Bull’s arm. “ _Arse.”_ She jutted an accusing finger at the tavern, arms still shaking. “They called her ugly! _Lilith._ Said it was good we had statues of Andraste up everywhere and not her, ‘cause at least these were _pretty_. And then he made some _stupid_ comment about her _nose_ that was just…awful, so I told him _exactly_ where he could shove a statue of Andraste, the stupid, pissfaced, nasty-arse son of a-”

She was cut off by two separate commands of “ _Squirrel!_ ” in near-perfect unison. She ended with a huff. “Why the fuck would he say that?” she demanded. “What kind of arsehole thinks he can _say_ that?”

“What, are you serious?” Bull asked. The incensed look he got in reply said yes, she very much was.

Not enough money in the damn world…

“Elves aren’t really into that,” he tried, but that only seemed to make her angrier. Even Blackwall raised an eyebrow. “I’m just saying,” he tried again. “She’s not an especially elf-y looking elf.”

 “So? Don’t mean she’s friggin ugly!”

“No one said it did-”

“ _They_ did!” she insisted. “And it’s _wrong!_ I’m not going to apologize for it!”

Bull sighed. “Look. Beauty’s kind of a muddy concept. ‘Eye of the beholder,’ and all that crap. It’s more of a subjective thing; means something different to different people. And to _those specific elves,_ it’s generally not Lilith. You can’t punch someone over it.”

“ _Piss off,_ I can! I’ll punch the whole lot of ‘em; let’s see them call her ugly with an arrow right up their-”

“ _Squirrel._ ”

“Oh go squirrel yourself; I’m sick of frigging squirrel!”

Bull caught sight of Solas from across the yard, silently watching, and motioned him over with an urgent wave. “ _Hey,_ ” he shouted, “a little help?”

He’d kind of expected the elf to do something _helpful_. Instead he came over just to ask, “What did he say about her nose?”

“Ah for fuck’s sake…that is _not_ what I meant by help.”

“ _Stupid_ stuff!” Sera answered. “Just… _stupid._ Stupid, mean… _urgh_. I’ve got to go.” She turned on her heel and stormed back toward the tavern, fists balled at her side. “ _Someone’s_ gonna get an _arrow_ in their _eyehole._ ”

Blackwall caught her by the shoulders and gently turned her back around. “Maybe not that,” he said.

Solas, curiously, said nothing.

A lot of fuckin’ help, indeed.

* * *

Blackwall decided it best to stay away from the tavern after that. At least for the rest of the week. (Or possibly month—his head still _killed_.) He also decided it best not to speak to anyone. Or be spoken to. Or even be _seen,_ really.

He decided, essentially, to hide.

Apparently Cole had the same idea.

He’d gone to hide away in the kitchen and was _hopelessly_ startled when he turned to find Cole sitting silently in the dark. “ _Maker,_ ” he swore, “I’m about to put a bell on you.”

The boy was perched atop a crate, a shadow beneath the brim of a hat with feet kicking to some absent rhythm only he heard. Blackwall frowned, surprise dwindling to concern. “You alright, Cole?”

“Yes. Just listening.”

He glanced around the empty room with a curiously raised brow. “To people? Or to…thoughts?”

“Both,” he decided. “It was much louder in the tavern. I didn’t like it.”

“Won’t argue with you there.”

“They think about Lilith a lot,” he said. Then, quieter: “…they don’t like her very much.”

“I’ve noticed.”

“Deshanna does, but listening to her hurts. I could help, but I’m not supposed to talk to her.” He sat up suddenly straighter, eyes going wide. “Maybe you could! You could talk to her for me, and then she’d feel better.”

While Blackwall admired the sentiment, he had to shake his head. “I don’t think that’s a good idea, Cole.”

“But she’s afraid,” he explained, and seemed to inwardly shrink. His shoulders bunched, anxious. “She doesn’t want us to hurt her like they did. _An accident,_ they said— _they’re only children, Deshanna; they don’t understand what they’re doing._ But it wasn’t an accident. They knew.” He cocked his head, voice falling gravely low. “Fighting but failing, water too deep for feet to reach. Too many hands holding her under, too many hardened faces. _Witches don’t drown. Everyone knows a witch won’t drown._ She sees her now and can still remember; fear as fresh as the day she pulled her body to shore. _What have you done?_ Heart heavy, hollow, hammering in her chest. She’s too small to feel so heavy in her arms. _You beasts, what have you done?_ Hands shaking as they try to force the water out. _I cannot do this again. I cannot lose another. Creators help me, Mythal, Falon’Din, please. Give her back, give her back, give her-_ ”

“ _Stop_.” The command echoed across the room from where Solas stood in the doorway, face a mask of horror. Blackwall wondered how long he’d been listening. “That’s _enough,_ Cole.”

He did. When he spoke again it was only a murmur beneath his hat. “She doesn’t need to be afraid. We wouldn’t do that. If someone tried I would kill them. You could tell her that, and then she wouldn’t have to be afraid anymore.”

“I don’t know if that’s quite what she wants to hear,” Blackwall said. He tried not to look as awful as he felt, although he supposed Cole would know either way. “For now why don’t we just…keep that to ourselves.” He looked to Solas for assistance, eyes pleading, but received no response. Solas, it seemed, could only stare.

“They think she’s too many people,” Cole went on, “but she’s only _her_. They don’t understand. We wouldn’t hurt her; we wouldn’t-” His words cut off abruptly in a soft inhale. When he spoke again it was quieter. Mournful. “…oh. Yes, I see.”

He slipped off his perch without pause for explanation, head ducked low. “I’m sorry,” he offered. “I don’t think I can fix any more this way. People remembering makes it hard, and…I should talk to Lilith.”

“That’s not necessary,” Solas insisted—the first real words he’d spoken. But Cole ducked by him regardless, too quick and far too determined.

“People talk to each other,” he maintained. “They tell each other what’s wrong. She’s my _friend._ ” Softer, lower: “I’m very sorry.”

Solas watched him go, frozen in place, and silently panicked.

Blackwall noticed.

He paused Solas with a hand at his shoulder as he moved to follow. Probably nothing, but… “Everything alright?” he asked. “…between you and the Inquisitor?”

For a moment Solas just stared. “…I’m sorry?”

“Lilith,” he prompted. “And you. Are things…generally okay?”

Solas was sure there were far more polite responses to that, but couldn’t help but settle on, “ _Why?_ ”    

“Cole seemed… _upset_. Thought you might have some insight on that.”

“He’s human now, is he not? I expect ‘upset’ will become a familiar state.”

“That wasn’t what I asked. We’ve all been through a lot together, and I want you to know I consider us friends—but if your intentions with Lilith ever stray from the straight and narrow, you should also know I won’t hesitate to defend her. That’s all. Just…be wary.”

Solas did not look offended, though. If anything he seemed…relieved. “A vow I shall keep in mind,” he promised. “…thank you.”

Blackwall went to leave and turned abruptly back. “I wasn’t here, by the way. I didn’t talk to anyone. Neither did you. We didn’t hear anything. And that?” He motioned to the empty room behind him. “Didn’t happen.”

“No,” Solas agreed. “It did not.”

So much for hiding, then.

* * *

Solas did not make it far. Sera stopped him before he could sweep past, hands fidgeting nervously. Apparently she’d been waiting. She jumped up from her seat as soon as she caught sight of him. “Hey, you. I wanted to ask you something. About elf-stuff.”

Solas slowed to a reluctant stop. Cole, he supposed, could wait. “Of course.”

“So Lilith’s middle name. Ha ha, big laugh. But I was thinking about it, yeah? And it’s supposed to be like…a parent…person, or whatever. But that’s not any person here. I checked. And I mean if she doesn’t have parent-people, or whatever, and it’s not any place I’ve heard of, then I guess I just wondered… It doesn’t mean something wrong, right? Oruvenen. ‘Cause I don’t… I mean I just thought it was funny; I’m not trying to be nasty, you know? I don’t want to call her something that’s…it doesn’t mean something bad, does it?”

“It means ‘of the stars,’” he supplied. “So no—not bad.”

“Stars,” she echoed. “Alright. And that’s good then? I mean, stars are nice. That’s a nice thing. Right?”

“I’m not wholly familiar with Dalish customs, but…yes. I would take it to mean something rather nice.”

But Sera wasn’t convinced. She shifted feet, anxious. “But like…why _that,_ though?”

“I’m afraid I could not tell you. The Dalish are rarely open to sharing knowledge with outsiders.”

“Oh piss off, you know stuff. You always know stuff.” Which was perhaps the closest thing to a compliment Solas had ever received from Sera.

He sighed. “I had always assumed they were patronymic. Possibly matronymic.”

Sera just stared.

“Named for a progenitor,” he translated. “…a parent. Thus her Keeper would be Deshanna, daughter of Istimaethoriel, of Clan Lavellan, and so forth.”

“Well no one here’s got that name, so what’s that mean then?”

“In the absence of blood relatives it is possible they instead use origin.”

“And what, does that mean like… _night_ or something? Like they picked her up in the dark somewhere? What’s _stars_ supposed to mean?”

“Perhaps whoever gave it to her thought her heavenly.”

She nodded as if satisfied with that answer. “Lilith of the stars.” She considered the title with tightly sealed lips. “Worse things to be, I guess. So…does ‘Lilith’ mean something in Elven?”

“Curiously, no. I’m unsure where her name came from, or why it was chosen. I suspect that to be yet another story she’ll refuse to tell.”

“Yeah. Right. Does, uh…my name mean anything? Just, you know. Out of curiosity, or whatever.”

“Suddenly interested in your history, are you?”

“Ugh, don’t make it weird. It mean something or not?”

“Not…exactly. The name itself is not explicitly Elven, no. Although the base word ‘era’ could be translated as ‘dream.’”

“Tch, stupid. Knew it. Not as bad as Lilith’s, though. So what’s ‘Solas’ mean then?”

“I am not Dalish.”

“Well no shit you aren’t, but you’re still all elfy. So’s it mean something or what?”

“Pride,” he grudgingly relented, and was startled by a snort of laughter and a teasing shove to his shoulder.

“ _Pride,_ ” she echoed, giggling. “It’s fitting, right? You got any other names?”

“No.”

“Oh don’t get all grumpy about it; at least it sounds ok. I mean Oruvenen though, that’s a riot. I’m gonna call her Ruvy.”

“Sera,” he said, and genuinely meant it, “I would like to see you try.”

 

He never did find Cole. Which was…worrisome. Lilith, though, was much easier to track.

She was chasing children through the garden when he found her. Some manner of game, it appeared. Solas watched content from the shadows as she ran laughing with a gaggle of Dalish children trailing in her wake, effectively infuriating the Chantry sisters by climbing on every available surface.

She teetered precariously on the edge of a bench while a child clung to each leg. “Don’t touch the ground!” she commanded. “ _It’s lava!_ ”

Her brood of elves erupted in screams and giggles, at once frantic and delighted. One took a running leap and careened headlong into a rose bush. The lingering Chantry sisters looked furious. Solas could only smile.

A little dark-eyed girl tripped and fell flat on her face in the dirt, and before she could suck back a breath to cry Lilith scooped her up and set her firmly on her feet. “Alright, congrats!” she cheered. “Looks like we’ve got ourselves a lava monster.” She nudged for her to follow, tiny fist enveloped in hers. “Come on, kiddo, you’ve got a fiery kingdom to establish. _Let’s get ‘em_.”

With a sniffle and an eager nod, she laughed and went screaming after her companions. Lilith jogged after them, laughter echoing through the courtyard.

Solas had never seen her with children before. He felt he could have watched her for hours.

He found himself slipping back into indulgent musings of domesticity, like a hazy daydream.

He had no idea if Lilith even believed in the concept of marriage, let alone _desired_ it. She’d attribute no religious significance to it, surely, and nothing about her subscribed to ideas of _tradition_ , but… The thought was a nice one. Regardless of reality.

He imagined she wouldn’t want a Dalish bonding ceremony. The Dalish had failed her, in more ways than he could detail. He could not blame her. She’d want a celebration, though—of that he was certain. Something big and colorful. Outdoors. She’d want entirely too many people present, because she was _Lilith;_ she loved loudly and joyfully, and she’d want everyone to know.

He imagined she’d want to wear red.

Then he imagined her face, and how her grin would crinkle her eyes into slits of glowing amber, and suddenly he did not want to think of this anymore. Maybe ever.

No matter how much he wanted to give her, they could never have that. Not with him. Not…not anymore. Not in this life.

When Lavellan called him over with a happy shout it felt like waking from a nightmare. He buried thoughts of phantom families behind a practiced mask of indifference.

“Check it out,” Lilith called. “I’ve got minions.”

“I assume they no longer suspect you a witch,” he commented, to which the boy still clinging to her leg gasped and tugged frantically on her skirt.

“He said the thing! Hey! Hey! _He said it!_ ”

“We’re not saying that word anymore,” Lilith translated. “Tell him why, gremlin hoard.”

“It’s _rude,_ ” a little girl promptly recited.

“And who’s rude?”

“Assholes.”

“ _Nope, nope,_ other one.”

“Mean people,” she corrected.

Lavellan held her arms open as if for applause. “The greatest strength of mankind,” she grandly announced. “They actually sort of learn.”

“I did warn you about language.”

“I prefer to think I’m making a statement about censorship.”

“That statement being?”

“Fuck it, am I right?”

Her new brood of minions erupted in giggles.

“Don’t go around repeating that shit to your parents though, you hear me? You’ll get me in trouble. Er. More trouble.”

An exasperated shout of _“Inquisitor!”_ called her attention away, where a Chantry sister presently fought to keep a potted flower out of reach of grabbing little hands. “Make them _leave!_ ” she pleaded.

Lavellan was called away to intervene, but before she could leave Solas asked with meticulous innocence, “Have you seen Cole, perchance?”

“Yeah,” she called over her shoulder. “He brought me cake. I don’t think he was technically _allowed_ to, because I’m pretty sure it was supposed to be for tonight, but I mean. I still ate it. Would have been kind of rude not to at that point, right?” She tucked a squirming child beneath each arm and marched the rest into the castle as if leading a small army. “Now,” she announced, “who wants to see a _dungeon?_ ”

Solas wished he’d followed her. Anything would have been better than his next conversation.

He felt the gentle weight of a hand laid on his shoulder, and had to fight the urge to bolt.

Deshanna smiled up at him. “So,” she greeted, and the eager glimmer in her eyes sparked a pang of dread. “When can I expect grandchildren?”

The entirely of Solas’ being seemed to inwardly reel. This was not a conversation he wanted to partake in. _Ever_. “Perhaps you should ask Lilith,” he deflected instead. “I believe she would have a better answer.”

But that only made her laugh. “It’s been nearly two years since she’s even _spoken_ to me, and you think she’ll answer _that?_ ”

Something about that sentence made Solas falter.

Had it really been so long?

“Two years,” he murmured. When had they begun…?

“Not to rush,” she said. “Just one before I’m dead would be lovely.”

Yes. So it would be.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 01\. [the water thing.](http://archiveofourown.org/works/4424879/chapters/10053575)


	10. Chapter 10

“You _idiot._ ”

Cullen supposed he deserved that. Still. “I did not mean to cause offense,” he defended. “I only…well it’s not a crime to be _careful_.”

He and Leliana were the only ones in the war room that afternoon. She’d dragged him in after a rather… _unfortunate_ conversation he may have had with Lavellan’s Keeper in the garden.

“Careful!” Leliana balked. “Threatening a Dalish clan with Templars is not a crime, no. But it does make you an idiot.”

“I didn’t _threaten_ -”

“You absolutely did!”

…he may have. In a sense. “I thought the Dalish only kept three mages in a clan. You can’t blame me for reacting when I find out there’s something close to _ten_.”

“Who told you they only keep three mages? Where did that number come from? Tell me, have you ever even _met_ another Dalish elf?”

Cullen was silent.

“You _idiot_ ,” she repeated.

“If Skyhold is to house more mages, it only follows that we must have an increased Templar presence. Especially _apostates_.”

“All mages are apostates now! Maker, a third of Lavellan’s inner circle is comprised of apostates! One of which is the son of a Tevinter Magister, no less!”

“That’s different,” he insisted. “These elves have never even seen a Circle; they have no formal training to-”

“Formal training? _Formal training?_ Is that what you think goes on in a Circle?”

“I was a Templar,” he pointed out. “I was actually _in_ Kirkwall when the mage rebellion began. I watched people die because of the actions of mages. I _know-_ ”

“You know nothing,” she hissed. “I knew mages. I had friends who were mages. Friends who your precious Circle _failed._ I’ve known mages who were better people than me—better people than us _both_. They are not a monolith; you cannot speak of them as if the crimes of one define them all. They are _people_. To treat them as if they lack the fundamental capacity to govern themselves is…” She waved her hands, furiously trying to find the best way to continue. “It’s idiotic!” she settled with.

A reoccurring theme of their conversation.

“The Dalish have lived for generations with their own system for handling magic,” she went on. “And you think now is an opportune time to criticize them?”

“They brought undocumented mages into our stronghold, many of which we have no way of determining. Maker’s breath, we don’t even know how many there are! That may have worked for them when they were living in the forest, but the Inquisition-”

“The Inquisition,” she reminded, “allied with the rebel mages.”

“And the Inquisitor herself sanctioned the addition of Templars to our ranks.”

“Yes, and she sanctioned _me_ to have my people oversee your Templars.”

“Since bloody _when?_ ”

“Since always! Did you honestly think anything went on in Skyhold without Lavellan steering it? The Templars are only allowed to exist beside our mage allies because _both parties_ are overseen by my people, who are overseen by me, who receives orders directly from the Inquisitor. I’m sorry to be the one to break this to you, Commander, but your Templars are not in control. _We_ are not in control. Lavellan is, and she has done a frankly astounding job, if that was not immediately obvious from the world she’s saving.”

“That’s not…I didn’t…!” He cut his argument short with a furious huff. “The only reason you care so much for mages is because you were _involved_ with one.”

Leliana slapped him.

He supposed he deserved that.

“The Hero of Ferelden,” she seethed, “was the finest woman I have ever known. You owe her your life. All our lives. And you owe her _respect_.”

“…I’m sorry. That was…I should not have said that.” He rubbed absently at his stinging cheek. Perhaps “idiot” was a rather fitting title after all. “I did not mean-” Well. “…that was out of line. I’m sorry. But I don’t think it’s out of the question to have _concerns_. We don’t even know how many mages there are—that kind of blindness is dangerous.”

The sharpness of Leliana’s glare could have cut diamonds. “You told Lilith’s Keeper, _Deshanna Istimaethoriel Lavellan,_ that she needed to provide a list of their mages’ names. And when she refused, you _threatened her with Templars_.”

“I did not _threaten_. I _clarified_ that if we were to house apostate mages, we would need an appropriate Templar presence. For _safety_.”

“The Dalish keep themselves safe! They’ve done so for years!”

“Well it’s not as if _Clan Lavellan_ is brimming with fine upstanding people. Have you even heard some of the things they’ve said about the Inquisitor?”

For a second he thought she’d try to slap him again. Instead she did something far worse. She began counting.

“First,” she said, “Deshanna Lavellan is one of the kindest women I have had the pleasure of meeting, and _our Inquisitor_ respects her implicitly, so to question her judgement is to question Lilith’s judgement. _Second,_ it does not matter how pleasant you find the company—you do not get to demand oversight of them! _Third_ -”

“Is this truly necessary?”

“Third,” she pressed on, “this is decidedly not the time for this conversation. If you wish to start another Exalted March against the elves, you can at least have the decency to wait until after Lavellan’s family leaves.”

“That is not what I said, and you are well aware of that.”

“You may as well have said it!”

“ _No,_ I said we needed to be careful. That we needed to take everyone’s safety into consideration. That regardless of what is _polite,_ we must realistically assess the danger an overwhelming mage presence presents.”

Leliana squared her shoulders and looked him straight in the eye. “These are the people who gave us Lilith,” she said, “and you think mages are the most dangerous thing they have to offer?”

Cullen would admit he didn’t quite know how to answer that.

“You behaved like an idiot,” Leliana maintained. “And you will _apologize_.”

For a moment he almost argued. Thankfully he thought better. “Fine. Yes. Alright.”

“And you’ll tell Josephine that you’re an idiot.”

“Oh, for Maker’s sake…”

“ _You will tell her_.”

“Fine,” he relented. “Fine, I will. Are you satisfied?”

“I’ll be satisfied when you apologize to Lavellan’s Keeper. But for now I suppose that will have to do.” She gestured to the door with a dismissive wave; a signal he could leave. And he would, but…

“…Leliana, I’m sorry. I should not have made that comment. About the…Warden.”

“No, you shouldn’t have.”

“I…I know what she meant to you.”

“No. You don’t.” She crossed her arms a touch too tightly. “Maybe my views are because of her, but that…it wasn’t because I loved her. It wasn’t just because I loved her. She was right, and I was wrong, and there is nothing wrong with learning to change.”

“Of course,” he said. “…I’ll go find Josephine.” He paused on his way out the door. “Just to be sure I understood you correctly—you did say Lavellan was spying on us, didn’t you?”

“Watching.”

“Right. Watching. And you’re not concerned that she may be watching you, also?”

“Of course she is.”

“That doesn’t worry you?”

“It would worry me if I could pick out which people are hers.”

“And you can’t?”

“Not all of them.”

Right then. What a comforting thought. “…Loranil isn’t one of them, is he?”

“Are you asking because he’s _Dalish?_ ”

“No,” he said. “Never mind.”

Cullen was about to trudge into Josephine’s office to alert her of his new title when the door burst open directly into his face. While he clutched at his nose with a long, howling “ _OW,_ ” a furious Josephine marched through the doorway.

“Who in the _world_ filled the _training dummies_ with _bees?_ ” Then she looked to her left, and her glare shifted into dismay. “Oh! _Commander!_ ”

“I’m fine,” he insisted. He tried to offer a dismissive wave and instead revealed an _impressively_ bloody nose. “…does it look bad?”

“Maker, I did not see you!” She fluttered her hands, scanning frantically for something to offer him. “Don’t touch anything; I will find you a handkerchief! Oh, of all the…”

“If you ask me,” Leliana muttered, “he doesn’t deserve one.”

“ _Leliana!_ Help me!”

Cullen looked down at his hand with a quizzical stare. “Am I bleeding?”

“I am so sorry!”

“…did you say someone filled the training dummies with _bees?_ ”

Running out of options, Josephine unraveled her scarf and shoved it into his hands. “Quick, before it-”

“Oh, Josephine, I really couldn’t-”

“Don’t get blood on the table!” She shoved him back with more force than he frankly thought she possessed. “It is _priceless!_ ”

“It’s a table. We put maps on it.”

“Solas said this table was crafted before the first stones of Skyhold's foundations were even laid!”

Cullen was already a safe distance from the table, but he took a decisive step backward nevertheless. “Ah. Well then.” He dutifully pressed the scarf to his bleeding nose. “So…bees, then?”

“Oh, Maker help me…” Josephine took a weary seat, head held despairingly in her hands. “This reunion will be my ruin. I am certain of it.”

“I suppose no one’s winning that bet, then.”

“ _Do not talk to me about the bet_.”

Cullen quirked an eyebrow at the sharp edge of her voice, and Leliana cleared her throat to explain, “She’s upset she lost.”

“I only lost because…! At any rate, the bet still stands.”

“Maker,” Cullen marveled, “who’s _left?_ ”

Josephine looked up with a frigid glare. “ _Varric_.”

 

* * *

 

Varric was reasonably certain he’d never before told this many lies in this short a time frame. (Alright, maybe “reasonably certain” was stretching it, but damn it, the point still stood.) He’d definitely never lied this much for someone _else_. And that was seriously impressive, considering the sheer amount of certified bullshit he made up about Hawke on any given day. But _this,_ this was…

Shit. Even for him, this was impressive.

Varric was the only one left in the don’t-fuck-up-the-reunion challenge, and while he definitely saw that coming, he’d kind of hoped the others would at least last longer. He knew they’d all lose, but he still _hoped_ they wouldn’t. Or at least not all at once.

Being right all the time was a blessing and a curse, he guessed.

If Varric was to be believed (which he definitely shouldn’t have been, but thank the Maker the elves didn’t know that), then Lilith Lavellan was singularly responsible for everything good in Thedas.

Bustling trade? Lilith. Well-priced goods? Lilith. Decline in darkspawn? Lilith. The return of previously endangered species? Lilith. Unseasonably good weather? Oh, definitely Lilith. (Just, you know. Don’t ask him to explain how.) Sealed sky? Absence of demons? _World peace?_ Okay, maybe not quite yet, but she was working on it.

For the amount of shameless talking-up Varric did he was pretty sure he could’ve convinced the Chantry to name her Divine. (Although he definitely wouldn’t tell her elves that.) He never thought he’d say it, but Varric was getting tired of lying. Which was why now was hands-down the _worst_ time for Cassandra to storm up to him with, “You little shit, you _knew,_ didn’t you?”

Aw, come on.

“Probably,” he offered. “But on the off chance I didn’t—what’s this about?”

“Lavellan,” she said. “And the…things.”

“Gonna have to be clearer than that, Seeker.”

“You knew she was exiled,” she clarified. “Didn’t you?”

And normally he’d just lie, but. “Yeah. So?”

“So? _So?_ You could have _said_ something!”

“Would you have?”

“Yes!” Then, less confidently, “…I imagine I would have. I would not keep it a secret, at the very least.”

“What if she asked you to?”

She faltered. Just barely. “It would only have helped us to know,” she said instead of giving a real answer. “We could have prepared. We could have helped.”

“Does Lilith seem like she needs a lot of help?”

“Ah- hm.”

“If her _literal family_ hadn’t swung by to tell you about it, do you think you’d have even found out?”

“It could have been relevant.”

“But it wasn’t.”

“It could still be-” This time she cut herself short. “…it could have been relevant. It was not. But there are other things that could also be relevant, and at the moment I am more concerned about those.”

“Let me guess. ‘What else is she hiding?’ Right?”

“The thought has crossed my mind.”

“Well here’s my answer: I don’t know. I know a lot of shit about Lilith, but Lilith knows a lot of shit about me. I’m not writing her damn biography; we just _talk_. She’s my friend.”

“So…are there other things, then, that you…? What else do you know?”

“I know not to answer questions like that. Come on, Seeker, you’ve got to know me better than that.”

“Varric, if there is something…worse, and it comes out, we need to be prepared to deal with it. For Lavellan’s sake.”

“Yeah. Like you needed Hawke, right?”

Cassandra looked oddly…repentant. “I am sorry about Hawke. Truly. I did not… That was never my intention, for things to-”

“No, I get it. I know. Everyone’s just full of sorry’s.”

“Varric. I…”

“I protect my friends,” he said. “You should really think about doing the same.”

Instead of arguing Cassandra chose only to sigh. “So we both know nothing, then.”

“Officially, no.”

“And unofficially?”

“We still don’t know anything,” he assured. “Trust me.”

…maybe one more lie wouldn’t hurt after all.

“Hey, Seeker—do the thing.”

“Varric, I do _not_ -”

“Come on, you know the rules. You say something you shouldn’t, you do the thing. And that was a whole lot of shouldn’ts. C’mon—I could use cheering up.”

Cassandra made a thoroughly disgusted noise, but supposed she at least owed him that. “Fine,” she said. She pulled a grimace. “ _Skrurel_.”

 

* * *

 

“Ugh, what kind of idiot designed this thing?” Sera sat cross-legged atop a crate in the rookery, fussing furiously with a misshapen rock. “It’s frigging _broke!_ ”

“It’s not _broken_ ,” Dorian informed. “It’s a _prototype_.”

Months back Dorian and Dagna had teamed up to work on a theoretical “message crystal”—a sort of instant communicator that was supposed to carry voice messages over long distances. He and Alexius had been playing with the idea for years, but he’d never gotten the chance to test it out in practice until the Inquisition offered him a frankly _obscene_ amount of resources. Unfortunately, theory and practice were two very, very different things.

They’d succeeded, sort of. Only the end result wasn’t so much a _crystal_ as a cloudy lump of rock, and its ability to accurately convey messages was…a tad underdeveloped. Sera pressed the thing to her ear as if listening for the ocean in a seashell. “It’s barely even words! Just rubbish noises! I could’ve done better than this by just _eavesdropping_.”

Blackwall gave a thoughtful hum. “Have you tried holding it the other way?”

The three crowded together in the safety of the rookery, barricaded by a cage full of Leliana’s ravens. The hope was that if anyone approached, Baron Plucky would give them a squawking heads up. They hoped.

“You sure you put the other one in the right place?” Sera asked. She gave the crystal a shake for good measure. “I mean, maybe a maid mistook it for garbage and went and tossed it out a window or something.”

“I fastened it directly under the war table,” Dorian defended. “No one went and ‘tossed’ it anywhere. It just…needs a moment to warm up, maybe.”

“Maybe Leliana found it,” Blackwall suggested. “Or Maker, maybe Lilith did. If anyone could sniff out a spy it’d be one of those two.”

Dorian _tsked_. “We’re not _spying_. We’re taking an active interest in the opinions of our fellow Inquisition members.”

“It’s magic eavesdropping.”

“Yeah,” Sera agreed. “It sort of is.” This time she gave it a more vigorous shake. “Maybe you’ve got to hold it higher. You know? Like…maybe the roof’s interfering with its…listen-y…magic…junk.”

Dorian couldn’t sigh loud enough. “It is a first-of-its-kind magical communicator that required a most _delicate_ manipulation of sound and space to craft. And you think the secret to its success is to _hold it a bit higher?_ ”

Apparently it was.

Sera balanced on tiptoes to hold it waveringly above her, and this time between bursts of garbled noise rang a smattering of actual words.

_“Lilith.……..dangerous…….apologize..………idiot……..!”_

“Rubbish,” Sera maintained. “How am I supposed to make sense of _that?_ It could at least give me a full stupid sentence!”

Blackwall watched uneasily as Sera teetered atop her crate. “You do realize this is the exact opposite of what Lilith asked us to do, right?”

“Excuse you,” Dorian scoffed, doing a marvelous impression of being offended. “This has nothing to do with her elves. If anything we’re doing this for her sake—imagine what will happen when her advisors discover…well _anything,_ really. I imagine they won’t react terribly well. The least we could do is listen in and give her some warning ahead of time.”

“I’m…not sure that’s entirely true.”

Sera banged the crystal against the wall with a furious huff. “Oi, Beardy, get up here and try this, will you? You’re tall-ish.”

“I don’t think that crate would hold me.”

“Ugh, fine, Mustache then. I need someone taller. Or with longer arms.”

Dorian only rolled his eyes. “Do you identify everyone by _hair_ now?”

“She does,” Blackwall informed. “You should hear what she calls Cassandra.”

Sera cackled. “ _Places,_ right? I thought she’d blow her top. Now get up here, yeah? Or…shoot fire out your arse and fly up, or something. Just get _higher._ ”

“What do you know,” Dorian deadpanned. “I’m all out of ass-fire today.”

“ _Ugh_.” She tried another graceless _crack_ against the wall, and Dorian looked positively stricken.

“ _Fasta vass_ , it won’t work any better shattered. Give it here; you’ve lost your crystal privileges.”

Sera ignored him. She smacked it again, and this time it spit out an actual full sentence:

_“Who in the world filled the training dummies with bees?”_

“Oh, right. Forgot about that one.” She couldn’t help but giggle. “Classic.”

Whatever sweet spot she’d shaken loose went dead after that. Even the gibberish fell silent. Dorian took the ruined crystal from her with a disappointed frown. “I suppose we’ll have to try again. Perhaps with something less… _lumpy_ next time. Maybe Dagna will have some ideas.”

“Probably better it didn’t work anyway,” Blackwall said. “I’m not sure how much Lilith would appreciate this kind of ‘help.’”

Suddenly a new voice rang out: “What kind of help?”

Dorian swore he nearly had a heart attack. He spun back with his hand clutched to his chest and, for some reason, uttered a shrill, “Squirrel!” Sera jumped so high she up and fell off her crate. Blackwall caught her mid-tumble, thankfully, but took an elbow to the eye in the process.

Solas, meanwhile, only stared.

It seemed Baron Plucky had betrayed them.

“Weren’t doing nothing!” Sera said as soon as she managed to orient herself. “Andraste’s _tits_ how do you sneak around like that?”

Solas eyed the trio with a knowing sort of frown. “Is that your _message crystal?_ ”

Dorian closed his fist around it and tried to look innocuous. “No.”

“Just a rock,” Sera added. “What’s a message crystal?”

Yes. Perfectly innocuous.

The definitely-not-a-crystal decided then was the perfect time to flare bright and sputter out: _“DO NOT TALK TO ME ABOUT THE BET.”_ Apparently shaking it broke its volume constraints.

Solas did not look amused. “ _Seriously?_ ”

“What are you doing up here, anyway?” Blackwall asked. He glanced at the small stack of papers in his hands. “…are those Leliana’s reports? Weren’t those locked up?”

For a long, tense minute no one spoke.

“Right,” Sera announced. “So. Nobody saw anybody doing anything up here. Square?”

The three looked expectantly to Solas. “…no,” he relented. “I suppose we didn’t.” He raised a curious brow at Dorian’s not-crystal. “You actually got it to work?”

“Ah. Partially.” Dorian held the thing up to the light and squinted. “It does something, at any rate. Although I’d once again like to remind everyone that it _is_ a prototype. The only prototype, might I add. On account of it being an unprecedented arcane breakthrough, and whatnot.”

“I must admit I’m impressed.” He leveled a frigid glare Sera’s way. “Not as much with you, though.”

“Alright but honest-talk, I still haven’t buggered up this elfy business as bad as you. Lookit you—stealing shit from Leliana! At least I just _listened_.”

“At least I,” Solas countered, “did not lose a bet.”

“Oh shove off, _dad._ ”

“Oh, of all the- Are you _serious?_ ” It took everything in him not to turn around and leave. “How did you even hear-!”

“Lilith told me,” Dorian answered preemptively, and his companions nodded in agreement. Apparently she’d told quite a few people.

“In her defense,” Blackwall said, “she was right—you sort of do make a funny face.”

Solas could do nothing but bury his face in his hands and miserably utter, “ _I hate this reunion_.”

“Could be worse,” Dorian said. “Could be daddy.”

“ _Stop._ ”

“Grandpa,” Blackwall offered.

“Honestly that would be preferable.”

“Fine, back to daddy, then.”

“I’m _leaving,_ ” Solas insisted. “ _Goodbye_.”

He stormed off down the stairs, but not before Sera gleefully shouted, “Go on then, run off to your girlfriend, _dad_.”

Perhaps “hate” wasn’t strong enough a word.

 

* * *

 

Solas had a mind to give Lavellan a stern talk about terrible nicknames. (Especially _that_. _Fenedhis,_ if he had to hear that one more time…) By the time he found her, though, the fire had cooled. Instead he thought of a much different conversation he’d rather have.

Lilith was talking to Deshanna.

They strolled down the great hall, engrossed in some manner of idle conversation, and for once Lilith looked…calm. Happy. Unworried with the disaster unfurling around her. Solas only wished he didn’t feel worried either. Unfortunately, that would not be possible.

Deshanna offered a wave and a pleasant smile, and disappeared out the main door with a herd of exceedingly dirty-looking children following close behind. This time Solas was the one to catch Lavellan’s attention and motion her over.

“Well,” she proudly announced, “those gremlins just got the tour of a lifetime. Did you know there’s a room _beneath_ Skyhold? Because I didn’t, and it is…very unsettling.”

Solas noted a trail of tiny footprints scattered across the stone floor. “Did you roll them all in _mud_ at some point?”

“Mud actually would have been better, to be honest.”

Splendid. “…could we speak for a moment? Somewhere private?”

She smiled up at him with eyes that gleamed. “Always.”

 

She must have been expecting a more intimate variety of private conversation. She followed him into the rotunda, curiosity building, and seemed disappointed when he stopped.

“I spoke with your Keeper,” he said. “…she’s under the impression you plan on having children.”

Lilith froze. “Excuse me?”

“Deshanna,” he clarified. “She asked me when she could expect them.”

“And, what? Have you fulfilled the expectations of everyone _you_ know?”

“No, I never meant- Why won’t you talk about this? What _happened?_ ”

Suddenly her posture shifted. _Bristled_. When she spoke again she slipped into that careful, eerie voice he knew was years-practiced. Another clever disguise. “Nothing happened. It just _is_. Drop it.”

Sound advice. And yet… “ _Why?_ ”

“ _Because,_ ” she stated. “That’s not what I’m here for. I’ve got a lot left to offer the world. Another me isn’t part of that.”

“And is that what you want?”

She faltered—a barely visible drop in certainty. “What? No, that’s not…it doesn’t matter what I wanted, I _can’t_. So just drop it.”

“Of course it matters what you wanted.”

For a moment she stared him down, defiant. But her resolve was not nearly as strong as she hoped. She relented finally with an unhappy sigh. “Look, I don’t know if you’ve noticed this or not, but I don’t exactly live a safe, wholesome lifestyle. I almost die at least once a week, and that’s on a good week. _I tried to fight a titan,_ Solas. A _titan_. You were there. That was an insane thing to do, and I just _charged into it_. And that’s not even taking into account the _actual Avvar_ _god._ A mega-powerful extradimensional entity, and I stabbed him to death! Just…wham, axe to the face. I have an abysmal track record for making good decisions. I should never be trusted with a tiny person. I’d be a _terrible_ guardian.”

“And that’s the only reason?”

She studied him with a narrow stare. “Would you want another one of _you_ running around out there?”

And he answered, honestly, “No.”

“Yeah,” she said. “Me either.” The easy confidence he’d become so accustomed to finally seemed to seep back. “Besides, ‘last of her bloodline’ sounds pretty brutal, doesn’t it? Like an aging queen, watching the sun set on the sprawling expanse of her empire—way more interesting than ‘oh yeah, that’s so-and-so’s mom.’”

“Flawless logic, as per usual.”

“I do what I can.” Her smile wilted at the sadness of his frown. She didn’t like that look. “…I made a decision,” she said. “ _I_ decided. The how and why are irrelevant— _I_ choose my life. And I might not get to choose my legacy, but I can at least choose that. So. Trust me. Alright? There isn’t any more to this conversation.” Her brows furrowed. Pleading. “ _Please_.”

“Of course. I should not have said anything.” Truthfully there was _much_ he wanted to say, but his silent mantra endured: Care. Tact. _Control_. “It is not my place.”

“Besides, imagine the two of _us_ banding together to unleash something unholy upon the world. My stubbornness, your cynicism—our overwhelming bitterness combined.”

“And hopefully your knack for compliments.”

“Hopefully my hair,” she amended, and he couldn’t help but laugh.

“Perhaps your sense of humor as well.”

“What a nightmare,” she concluded. “Watch, it’d get all your passive aggression and all my _actual_ aggression. It’d be a veritable pariah before it hit twelve. No one will invite it to any of their parties.”

“Yes,” he conceded. “Truly a tragedy.”

“The tragedy is with my luck it’d end up with my nose, too.”

But Solas wasn’t sure how that could ever be a bad thing. He wondered, absently, if it would have her eyes as well.

Perhaps her freckles.

Perhaps his magic.

A jolt of guilt brought him back to the present, thoughts scattering like mice in light. No. No, that had been a mistake. An exercise in pointless self-indulgence. It…that would not happen again.

“At the very least,” she mused aloud, “it’d probably have _great_ thighs.”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so many idiots in one castle, oh my god  
> how do they get anything done


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey remember that **M** rating.
> 
> So this is honestly two things: a.) supreme solavellan angst hour™ and b.) a fair bit of gettin' it on  
> So. Strap in, I guess. 乁(ツ)ㄏ 
> 
> I was gonna save this for later and spread updates out evenly, but my internet might be spotty for a while, so whatup, have another while I got it. Endgame spoilery(??)

Yes. Cullen did in fact inform Josephine that he was, by all accounts, “an idiot.” That part went surprisingly well. The second part of his promise, though, was a bit more uncomfortable.

Lilith’s Keeper was easy to find. He found her again in the garden courtyard, chatting with an elven herbalist. Cullen waited until the two parted to clear his throat.

“Keeper Istimaethoriel?” He gave a quick bow. “If, ah, if I may have a moment of your time…”

Deshanna laughed—a pleasant sound that came all too easy. “While I appreciate formality, Commander, just ‘Deshanna’ will be fine.”

Cullen apologized—profusely and with rapidly dwindling elegance—until Deshanna paused him with a gentle touch. “Commander,” she assured, “do you think you’re the first Templar I’ve ever been chastised by?”

“Truly, I cannot properly express my regrets. My behavior this afternoon was inexcusable, and-”

“Creators bless, I’m not _upset_ with you. Although I expect Lilith may be. You’re a dedicated man, Commander Cullen. You take your job very seriously, and that is a commendable quality.” She snuck in a sly wink. “But perhaps you could benefit from taking a nice week off?”

“Yes,” he agreed. “Perhaps I could.”

“Oh, chin up—barring that, you’ve been a lovely host. Or at the very least a handsome one. I’m happy either way.”

Well then. Cullen was beginning to see a family resemblance after all. For a moment he considered they may be able to soldier through this reunion yet—and then Lilith’s furious shout erupted from across the courtyard:

“Cullen, what the _fuck?_ ”

Deshanna gave his shoulder a sympathetic pat. “I did tell you she’d be upset.”

Andraste save him… “I am _very_ sorry.”

“Oh,” she said, “I expect you will be.”

 

* * *

 

Lilith decided to retire early that evening. Leliana and Josephine could handle any further mishaps without her, she was sure, and honestly? Even if they couldn’t, she was kind of…over it. (Although she _did_ surreptitiously steal one of Leliana’s reports she’d spotted hidden beneath a stack of books on Solas’ desk. A suspiciously _confidential_ report. Apparently someone was getting too curious for their own good.)

She skipped dinner, and no one blamed her. Frankly she’d had enough family banquets to last a lifetime. She climbed the winding steps to her bedroom, and this time made double sure to lock her door behind her.

She found Solas waiting in her chambers. Watching the courtyard below through her open window. He turned at the telltale creaking of the staircase, and the smile that lit his face made the whole awful day a bit better. Without a word he pulled her by the waist into a lingering kiss that left her breathless, and just like that, she was done for.

 

Sera had asked about their relationship once—leaned in close with a toothy grin during a hazy afternoon on the roof and gave her shoulder a nudge. “Be honest,” she’d prodded. “When you two are really gettin’ it, is he like…keep-your-eyes-closed, lights out, doing it through a sheet or something? Or does he go all super-repressed-nutty and like really _rip_ into ya?”

Lilith had laughed. A distinctive cackle that carried across the yard. “Are those the only options I get?”

“Ooh, is he into that real freaky shite?” She landed a purposeful smack to her shoulder, eyes alight. “Come on, be honest. Which is it?”

But she was being honest. Solas put so much energy into appearing unshakable, a pillar of restraint, of wisdom, calm and collected and forever held at the most measured of distances. He was vigilant, guarded. Always so discreetly _guarded_. But…

“Neither,” she’d decided with a shrug. “It’s neither.”

“Oh come _on._ I’m finally giving an active shit about your love life and this is all you’re gonna give me?”

“Did you want a detailed breakdown? I could write you up an essay.”

“ _Ugh,_ gross, no. Just give me like…a _word_. And please say ‘repressed.’”

Lilith had smirked. A tight-lipped little rumble of laughter from low in her throat. She remembered it took her a moment to answer.

“Worship,” she said finally.

She remembered the snort in Sera’s laughter at her response; the exhausted roll of her eyes. “Oh, hardy har,” she’d said. “Such a poet, you. It’s sex, not a _Chantry service_.”

Lilith could think of a few choice arguments for that.

 

Solas was many things. Alone, though, with her, he was…different. Unmade, unguarded. Softer, broken down to sweet whispers and lingering kisses as if there was no sky torn asunder; as if they had all the time in the world. Alone he was _hers._ He touched her like a priceless artwork in the end of times. Reverent and starving, all at once—a rare and precious thing to be savored, _loved_. She reveled in his adoration; drank in each outpouring of affection like she’d stumbled upon an oasis in a desert. He could never be forever but for now he was _hers,_ and that…

That was enough. Would always be enough.

He held her close like he might at any moment lose her—an embrace warm enough to melt her in his arms. Kissed her scars with a sweetness that sent delighted shivers up the aching column of her spine. He felt _warm,_ steady, hers. He felt like home.

She sort of loved that part.

Sort of loved a lot of things.

She loved the barely-there dusting of pale freckles over the bridge of his nose, across the broad expanse of his shoulders; loved the needful sounds he made when she traced lips over the edge of his ear; the squeeze of his hand in hers. Loved how tenderly he laid her back, the warm press of him against her, the sweet, reverent care with which he opened her and slowly—so _slowly_ —eased himself inside. His breath hitched in a muted gasp, roaming hands finding purchase in the soft swell of her breasts, the muscled contours of her thighs; left a trail of caresses that followed the tattoos winding down her legs, over her hips, his hands warm with the glow of magic.

Normally he undressed her like unwrapping a priceless gift—took his time, his touch gentle, rhythm so carefully measured. Normally Lilith was the one to dig fingernails into flesh; to pull and command and _yearn_. Where Solas savored she _indulged,_ and together they struck a balance.

But tonight he kissed her with the hunger of a man starved, a craving deep and ravenous. Sunk eager fingers into the meat of her thighs, pulled her closer, _nearer,_ until she felt herself consumed. He sucked treasured kisses to her freckled skin; worried a pert nipple between his lips with a pleased hum as she sank nails into his shoulder and murmured vows of love, of bliss, of destruction. Gentle coupling gave way to something more desperate, something _hungry,_ indulgent; all grasping hands and wet, heated kisses that sent her back arching off the sheets in a punched-out gasp, legs wrapped tight around his hips.

He was always so hesitant about finishing inside. Nervous despite her repeated assurances. Tonight there was no hesitation—he came buried deep, hips pressed flush against her; held her tight as if she was the only thing anchoring him to the earth. He called her name in a needful gasp, driving deeper with each stuttering _push_ until he had nothing left to spill.

Lilith would admit she rather liked that part.

He brought her to release again with his fingers; drew a third from her with a clever tongue. Eased her through the aftershocks with sweet caresses until she was a panting, boneless mess splayed across the sheets, dark lips parted in a wordless prayer.

She’d admit she liked _that_ part even more.

After, in the hazy afterglow, he pulled her snug to his chest with his arms tight around her middle and breathed a contented sigh into the silvery mess of her hair.

She curled into his embrace, tangled legs together and settled back against his chest with a happy, tuneless hum. “What was that for?”

“What was what for?”

“ _That_.”

“Is it so unbelievable for me to simply desire you?”

She laughed—a beautiful, horrible sound. “Oh, I’m plenty aware of how irresistible I am.”

“Good,” he said. “You should be.”

He held her tight; splayed a hand against the lean muscle of her bare stomach, and for a guilty moment imagined what they could have had. Another time, another place. Some different reality where he actually deserved a family. Deserved _her_. Where they could have made something together—whole and bright and _theirs_. They could have found _home_.

His thoughts twisted to darker eras long past. In another time, he could have given her the world. Would have, without a thought. Would command armies for her. Raze nations. Would give her power and comfort and a belonging she _deserved;_ where her name would be whispered in reverence, in praise, _adoration_ , and monuments would be built to celebrate the perfect angles of her face…

She could have been their savior. Their avenger. Their _protector_. She could have saved them all— _would have_ —and they would love her as he loved her. As she should have been.

Wholly, and ever-bound.

But that was not their world. Would never be. And their future offered no homecoming.

He felt her chest rise and fall with a weary sigh and wished, desperately, he could have changed this. “For whatever it’s worth,” he said, “I like your nose.”

“The one thing you and Sera have in common. One more person and it’ll have three whole fans.”

“I mean it. You’re beautiful.”

“Is that what you thought when you first met me? That I was _beautiful?_ ” She laughed, amused by the absurdity of the very thought, and Solas’ heart dropped.

No. He hadn’t.

He’d thought her sharp and imperfect. Her nose was too long, lips too thin, mouth too wide. Her forehead was too rounded where it should have been sloped; the angles of her bones too harsh where they should have been soft. He thought her complexion hopelessly uneven, the smudged lines of black around her eyes too heavy, the lurid red of her lips _garish_.

He thought her striking, but he did not think her beautiful.

He wished he could take those thoughts back.

“And what if I did?” he challenged. What if he’d thought her the loveliest creature on earth? If he’d seen that from the start?

“You didn’t,” she plainly informed. “But that’s fine.” She twisted back to glance his way with the upturn of a smirk. “I’m more of an acquired taste. Like unsweetened tea. Or maybe really cheap wine.”

“You’re not,” he said. “Regardless of what you believe, I will always think you beautiful.” Old thoughts still lingered, clinging like shadows. If things had been different. If _he_ had been different. “And I do not think you would have made a terrible guardian.”

“You’re right, terrible is a little dramatic. Sub-par is probably more honest.”

But that wasn’t what he meant.

“Whatever it is you think you are,” he said after a careful pause, “I believe you’re wrong. Nothing about you is sub-par.”

She wriggled closer beside him. “Charmer.”

“I love you.” He tested the weight of the confession, the words settling comfortably on his tongue. “Whatever comes to pass, that much will always be real.”

She settled against him with a sweet, happy sigh, and he wished he could stay like this. Here, forever—content to do nothing more than hold and _forget_.

But…

He couldn’t rein in thoughts of different places. Different people. She could have been the best of them—a goddess, in her own right. The People’s tireless defender, ever fearless, ever fighting. She could have been their champion; their rallying cry for freedom. Could have been worshipped.

And she could have saved them. If anyone could have, _she could_. She’d have found a way. Maybe she even could have saved-

Solas wished, desperately, he’d met her sooner.

To lay beside her was a blessing. To move within her, _divine_. She laughed when she kissed, bit her lip to hold back blissful grins, and when she uttered his name it rang through his bones like a holy chorus. Solas held no faith in the notion of heavenly creators, but he would believe in Lavellan until the day she ended him.

She kissed him—eager and indulgent—and it felt like absolution. “I love you.”

The words wrapped tight around his heart like a heavenly decree. He had never in his life felt more unworthy.

He could never give her happiness, but she could have his heart. All of it; whatever was left of it. Whatever that amounted to. He’d give her all he had left. The last true love he would ever possess. His last glimpse of the heavens before the coming fall.

She deserved so much better.

 

* * *

 

That night Solas dreamed of spires of crystal twining through the branches and palaces floating among the clouds. Of dead homes once shining and bright. He dreamed of Lavellan—fierce and smiling—impossible at his side. Of an unreality where he could call her his, a hazy mix of memory and desperate wishes.

In his dream they were happy.

“You know,” she warned, “with our luck it’ll be twins.” Lilith sat perched at the edge of a terrace, legs kicking in the memory of a breeze. “Or maybe triplets. Quadruplets. What’s the word for five?”

“It will _not_ be five.” Solas offered a hand and helped her rise to her feet with a little more effort than she was used to.

“Fine,” she huffed, “back to two then. So as for names…”

“Is it not too early for that?”

“Well we already decided on one.”

“We are not naming it-”

“Dragon Fucker,” she helpfully finished. “Dragon-Fucker Lavellan. Sorry—you already promised. I wrote it down and everything.” She leaned up to kiss him, laughter sealed behind her lips. “Although I _could_ be persuaded to change my mind. Possibly. Theoretically.”

She leaned back against him with a comfortable sigh, and suddenly he forgot about names. He wrapped his arms around her middle; held her close with his hands at the base of a swollen belly.

“So,” she prompted, “are you hoping for a girl or boy? Or both? Neither? …somewhere between?”

But he didn’t care. Had never even entertained the mad hope he’d come this far, let alone… “I hope it’s like you,” was all he said. That would be…perfect.

Everything would be perfect.

 

He awoke with a ringing hollowness in his chest that ached with each ragged breath. It took a long and agonizing moment to realize what had happened. What he’d constructed.

He looked to Lilith still sleeping beside him, curled half hidden beneath a pile of pillows, hair a tangle of white.

She didn’t want that. He was ashamed even to have dragged her into such a fantasy. She didn’t want that, and he never could. This was just…a mistake. A shameful and delirious nightmare. A one-time slip in control.

The blankets shifted beside him. Lilith settled herself closer with a bleary yawn and cracked open a single amber eye. “The Inquisition only has room for two insomniacs,” she murmured into her pillow. “And I’m both of them.”

“I would never think to challenge you.”

“Good.” She draped an arm over him and nestled closer with a sleepy hum. “So go to sleep.”

That he could not do.

He laid awake while she drifted back to sleep beside him. _A mistake,_ he assured. Only a mistake. It would not happen again. Couldn’t. And Lilith…

She could never know. Please. _Please,_ he could not drag her down with him, too.

Eventually he eased her head off his chest, carefully disentangled her arms from around him, and slipped silently out of bed in search of clothes. He left without a word to the safety and silence of the rotunda.

He’d made a mistake—had opened something dark and awful inside him that tainted sleep with echoes of imagined homes. He only thought of it for a moment; just a _second,_ but…but that was already too long. Intrusive reminders of things that could never be hovered in the periphery of every errant thought, waiting for his focus to slip. Waiting for him to weaken. To fail.

_If things had just been different…_

She deserved her people’s derision no more than she deserved what he would do to her. She did not deserve to ever again be abandoned. To ever be made to feel _less_. But he was weak, and selfish, and in love, and…

And they deserved some small happiness, didn’t they? _She_ did. Some brief comfort before the end; a moment of peace before the coming fall. They could never be forever but they could at least find happiness _now,_ just in this fleeting moment…couldn’t they?

Was it truly so selfish to seek one last instant of love?

The answer echoed in the back of his skull like the chiming of Chantry bells—an ominous, ringing promise, full of dread. He spent the remaining hours of night awake at his desk. When he finally drifted off, in the hazy grey darkness before sunrise, it was by accident—his face fallen into his hands, papers still scattered across the desktop. Daylight broke in silvery light, and Solas, falling fast into oblivion, was left at the mercy of a dark and terrible heart.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I thought this was supposed to be lighthearted fun wth  
> who asked honestly
> 
> 01\. [Dragon-Fucker Lavellan.](http://archiveofourown.org/works/4679195) **(still nsfw)** for anyone who hasn't read it and suddenly feels compelled to.
> 
> she's 100% serious goddamn it.


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey remember [The Masked Empire](http://dragonage.wikia.com/wiki/Dragon_Age:_The_Masked_Empire)? Because I sure do. Spoilers for that I guess. (I mean. Just a little.)
> 
> This was gonna be one long chapter, but. I thought it'd be better broken up. Many feelings are had. Have them all now. I am...so sorry.

Solas did not venture into the Fade. He considered it, briefly—what better way to escape unwanted thoughts than to simply _leave_ —but…

Hm.

The Fade was shaped by emotion—shaped by _dreams_ —and Solas wasn’t sure that would lead anywhere good. Hazy subconscious nonsense was unsettling, perhaps, but at least it had no form. No real clarity. He would rather not risk changing that by dragging guilty thoughts into another existential plane. Not now. Not like…this.

Wherever his dreams brought him this time was dark and unfamiliar. He felt a sense of dread, but had no command here. Could only drift, and regret.

It seemed all he could ever do was _regret_.

He saw Felassan—no, the memory of him, a vivid nightmare—an imagined phantom with dead, glaring eyes. More regrets upon regrets upon regrets.

_Is this what you wanted?_ His image seemed to say. _Was this part of your great plan? To have the Inquisitor on her knees before you?_

No. No, that was never-

_Does it feel good to have her on her back? Do you relish it? Or do you prefer her kneeling between your legs, lips wrapped around-_

_Stop._ A desperate plea. Stop, you’re wrong, I never meant for this.

_Do you think she’ll still love you when she finds out what you’ve done?_

Stop.

_Do you think she’ll still want to fuck you?_

Please, stop.

_Or will she look back at all the times the Dread Wolf claimed his prize and shudder? Will she scrub your memory from her flesh and try to forget?_

No. No. It is not like that.

It had never been like that.

_Do you think her clan will welcome her back when the Inquisition falls and the world discovers she served their betrayer with open arms and spread legs?_

Stop, stop, stop, stop…

_She’ll regret ever letting you touch her. Letting you_ defile _her. She’ll regret and she’ll hate, and it’ll be your fault._

No, I did not want this. I never meant for…

Please, just _stop_.

_I had to die because they couldn’t be people,_ the image of him snarled. _And yet here you stand with their leader warming your bed._

No. I’m sorry. You don’t understand. I’m so sorry.

_Is it satisfying for the Dread Wolf to take her? Or is it like fucking a Tranquil?_

Solas awoke with a pounding heart and the ghost of a scream building in his throat. It took far too long to realize where he was. To remember _when_ he was.

_What have you done?_

_What have you done to her?_

This was wrong. All of it was wrong. He had no right to Lilith’s affection; had no right to her _body,_ and yet how many times had he claimed it under the pretense of love?

_No. I never lied about that._

He would never lie about that. Would never lay with her under false pretenses. He _loved_ and that was _real_ and…

It was never supposed to happen this way.

This wasn’t for her. Solas knew that. He was doing her no favors by pursuing this, this… _misguided entanglement,_ this doomed imitation of romance. He knew from the beginning their end could never be a happy one, and yet he’d gone along with it anyway. _Pursued_ it anyway.

_But she pursued, too,_ he tried to tell himself. _She chased, initiated; was I supposed to turn her away?_

And yes, of course he was—he was supposed to be better, _wiser,_ but…

She felt so _real,_ an anchor bright and shining, and he fell in love with the way she pulled him with her into a world he’d thought long dead. She was life, perseverance, _hope_. She made him feel _savable,_ and that…

Solas could not remember the last time he ever felt that.

He cradled his head in his hands and took a slow, deep breath. “ _Lasa ghilan,_ ” he breathlessly swore. “What have you done?”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've said it before and I'll say it again:  
> Solas, you gigantic ancient idiot. Your choices are bad and you should feel bad.
> 
> Anyway here's a fist full of feelings to the face.


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so _heyyo,_ life's been weird and scheduling has been weirder but y'all's comments are a godsend and I love them and I love you and here, have some more complete and utter disaster. (✿ ᐛ )

Lilith awoke far too early to a strangely empty bed.

Huh. That was…different.

It wasn’t often Solas woke up before her. Especially when she put that much effort into wearing him out the night before (and _oh,_ was she good at that). It was fine, though—she always did know where to find him. She was good at finding a lot of things.

This morning it was the rotunda. Of course. Apparently it was the only room he’d use now. He was bent over his desk, his back to the door, and for a moment she considered sneaking up on him—slinking up behind and grabbing a firm handful of some _very_ firm ass—but something was…off. There was a foreign rigidness to his shoulders. A tension that wasn’t supposed to be there.

 _Huh._ Different.

He seemed oddly startled at the soft sound of the closing door. “You know,” she greeted with a creeping grin, “if you keep sneaking off to sleep at your desk I’m going to start taking it personally.”

She touched a hand to his chest and leaned up to kiss him, but he pulled back too fast. A kneejerk reaction. He caught her hand, held safely at bay, and tried not to dwell on the wounded flash across her face.

She withdrew her hand. “…you okay?”

“Fine,” he lied. “Tired.”

She knew it was a lie. Somehow, worryingly, she always knew. But she only nodded, face cautiously impassive. “Alright. Well. I’ve got some business to take care of this morning, but miracle of miracles, I’ve got the rest of the day free. So…maybe I’ll see you later then, yeah? I wouldn’t mind a mid-afternoon encore, if you’re up for it…” She moved to kiss him and he turned away.

_He had no right to this._

“Is something wrong?” The genuine worry in her voice sent a pang of dread straight to his heart.

_He had no right, he had no right…_

“Nothing,” he assured half-heartedly. “You’ve done nothing. I…need time to think.”

“Oh.” She sunk back, hands fidgeting in front of her. She wasn’t sure what to do. That was… _very_ different. “Okay. That’s…okay.”

He turned back to the haphazard spread of papers over his desk without so much as a word. He didn’t even look up when she went to leave.

“Solas?” She stopped herself in the doorway, hand lingering on the frame. “Did something happen?”

He still didn’t look up. “No.”

“…you sure about that?”

“ _Yes_.”

“If that’s supposed to convince me, it’s not doing a very good job.”

“I’m _fine_ ,” he insisted. It came out sharper than he’d intended. Another mistake. “…I have work to do.”

Lilith didn’t argue this time. But she may have unintentionally slammed the door a _touch_ too hard behind her.

 

* * *

 

Solas was not proud of it—it was weak and unkind and _entirely_ unhelpful—but he could not bear to watch Lavellan leave. Not yet. Not with echoes of nightmares still pinging around in his head. He couldn’t stop dwelling on well-meant words. He remembered Deshanna’s smile, warm and expectant, and those five awful words: _“When can I expect grandchildren?”_ He remembered her next words even clearer, and those sparked far more dread.

_“It’s been nearly two years…”_

He’d stolen a year of Lilith’s life from her, _more_ even; time and affection she could have spent with another, someone who would love and adore her and would never leave. Someone she _deserved,_ and yet…

The thought of another in her bed made his heart ache. Worse—he felt a darkly simmering anger, a shameful flare of envy, of hate, _jealousy_ , and…

And it was selfish. All of it. Selfish and weak and _foolish,_ so very, very foolish. He’d stolen so much from her and yet could not bear to stop.

When Lilith left she slammed the rotunda door so hard it rattled on its hinges. It opened moments later just long enough to allow her terrible cat to slip inside, then promptly closed again.

Solas supposed he deserved that.

The mangy beast she so lovingly called _Fen’Harel_ leapt onto his desk and immediately made itself comfortable by settling atop an important stack of papers. Solas reached to shoo it away and was answered with a vicious hiss. Lovely.

He’d left a half-full cup of tea on the corner of his desk, now cold. He watched as Fen locked eyes with him and promptly knocked it over with a decisive swipe of his paw.

“Lovely,” he repeated in a murmur. “Living up to your name then, I see.”

In the end he had to relocate to the library. He made a solid attempt to pick Fen up and toss him out the door, and instead lost a sizeable chunk of skin on his hand. He stormed up the steps to the library, still bleeding, and heard the unmistakable sound of claws raking down furniture.

“Just _lovely,_ ” he hissed. What an utterly _promising_ start to the day.

 

He was granted two full hours of relative peace before the universe decided he was due for more suffering. This time it chose the form of something even worse than a cat. (Marginally.)

Solas was pulling books from a library shelf when Sera marched up to him and halted him in place with a paper shoved into his face. “What’s this mean?” she demanded.

Solas only barely convinced himself to set aside his books. He tried to weigh the consequences of tossing Sera out a door. “I’m sorry?”

“This word.” She waved her paper, a crumpled scrap of parchment bearing a rushed scrawl of words. “What’s this mean?”

Solas had to squint to make it out. _Lenul ass loth deen_ …? “Len’alas lath’din?” he translated. “…where did you hear this?”

“Here, obviously! What’s it mean?”

_Len’alas lath’din._

Solas felt an inexplicable surge of guilt. He’d said some… _unkind_ things to Sera in the past, he’d admit. But to call her _unlovable_ was taking it a bit far. Perhaps not the worst thing he’d said to her, but… It still seemed unnecessary. He frowned. “Who said this to you?”

“Not _me,_ ” she corrected with a huff. “They said it to Lilith.”

Oh.

Oh, no.

Sera waited, foot tapping impatiently. “So what’s it mean then? Huh?”

He did not answer.

“…it’s something bad, isn’t it?” she ventured. “ _Isn’t it?_ ”

“It’s…” It felt somehow wrong to lie to her. Still. “It is not a positive statement, no.”

“But what’s it _mean?_ ”

_Len’alas lath’din._

_Dirty child no one loves._

“It is not something I would repeat,” he said. “I would advise you not to repeat it either.”

“ _Ugh!_ ” She snatched her paper back and crumpled it in her fist. “Of course it’s something awful! Of course! Stupid pissing… _ergh,_ why are you all like this? Why do elves have to be so… _shitty!_ ”

“I,” he thinly reminded, “am not a Dalish elf.”

“Oh, I know, you’re so much better, right? ‘Cause you’re sooo different? Well from here you’re just another _stupid elf_ with _stupid ideas_ about what’s the wrong way to be, and I’m over it. You lot can take your crusty superiority bullshit and fuck right off.” She balled her paper up and hurled it at his chest.

…was she _crying?_

She swiped at her nose before he could pursue that thought. Whatever sadness she’d let slip sank back beneath a wave of fury. “You know all that stale failure-of-your-kind rubbish means her too, right? _Lilith._ All those stupid comments you always think you’re making about me, all the ‘furthest from yourself’ piss. You know you say it to her too, right? I mean, maybe not right-out in your face, but you’re still saying it. She still _hears_ it.”

“I have _never_ said-”

“Oh _shove it_ you! ‘Oh, pity poor Sera, never as good as we were, blah blah frigging _blah,_ gotta feel so _bad_ about how _different_ and _wrong_ she is.’ Well you know what? Lilith’s got a lot more in common with me than you lot of pointier-than-thou arseholes, and there’s nothing _wrong_ about her. So if you think you’re not a proper fuckface ‘cause you only talk shit about me, then sorry, you’re wrong. Lilith hears it too. You’re an idiot same as them, and you can all fuck off. Take all your stupid pity and shove it right up your arse.”

For once— _miraculously_ —Solas did not argue.

Sera turned to storm off, still spitting curses under her breath. She paused only long enough to give her paper ball a decisive _kick_ that sent it skittering across the floor. “ _Lenul_ my arse,” she seethed. “ _Loth_ -friggin pissbuckets.”

 

When Solas finally returned to the rotunda he found an unwelcome surprise waiting for him. The cat still sat primly atop his desk, lazily licking at its paw. It appeared it’d decided to defecate on his chair.

Fitting.

* * *

 

In the end Sera got Dalish to translate for her. (The fun one that ran with the Chargers; not the, you know, _people_.) Sera may have kicked over a chair in response. Although she guessed Lilith’s reply made more sense now. Some elfy shit spit _“lenul ass loth deen”_ and Lilith had just laughed and said, “That’s not what your dad said last night.”

That kind of made Sera feel better. A little.

She still went and found Lilith, though. She was kicking around the mage tower, handing something off to one of Leliana’s people, when Sera approached with a nervous sort of cough. “Hey, you. Got a minute? I wanted to, uh, talk. Kind of.”

Lilith greeted her with a smile. That kind of made her feel better, too. “Always,” she said. “Hit me.”

“Right. Well…could we do this somewhere else? Wanna, I dunno, sit on the roof? Been a while since we tossed cookies at people, right?”

“Even better,” she agreed. “But I’m bringing the cookies this time.”

Quizzie swung by the kitchen to nab a hidden stockpile of cookies and met Sera in their usual spot outside her window. And that was _great,_ because eating stupid cookies was _their_ thing, and it’d always been grand, but.

Ugh, so _stupid_ …

Sera wasn’t super sure how to start, so she just sort of winged it. “You know, like, a while ago?” she tested. “A way while ago. When you were all, ‘oh it’s so great talking to another elf like me,’ and whatnot, and I got all pissy about it and told you to fuck off? I mean I didn’t _say_ fuck off—I don’t remember what I said. But that was what I meant, you know?”

“Yep. I remember.”

“Yeah. That. Well I wanted to say sorry, yeah? That was stupid. I wouldn’t say shite like that now. ‘Cause…well it was just stupid, and I didn’t mean it. Not like that. I was just…mad, yeah? Not at you or anything, just _people_. Stupid people. Anyway. Sorry about it. That’s all. …the end? I dunno how apologies are supposed to go.”

“They go like that,” Lilith assured. “And it’s fine. Really. I didn’t take it personally; you’re good.”

“But it’s not fine; it was _stupid._ Anyway it’s nice talking to an elf like _you_. You know. All good-like. I mean…fuck them, right? All the stupid people saying stupid things. A bunch of poncy arseholes, the whole lot.”

Lilith laughed, but it came out oddly clipped. This time the sound didn’t carry.

She cleared her throat.

“So. Remember when I told you I was from ‘North Wherever’?”

“What?”

“North Wherever. You know. I asked where you were from, you said _'Ferelden, south, north, wherever,’_ so I said I was from North Wherever. And then I followed it up with ‘Oh, we had fun on Street and/or in Local Tavern,’ which I thought was _very_ clever.”

“Oh. Yeah, yeah, big ol’ riot you are.”

She laughed, but it sounded forced. “That was…technically true? _Insufferably_ coy, but. Still true. Technically.” She didn’t look at Sera while she talked. Just sort of…stared. Gazed, like searching on a map. “I _did_ spend a lot of time up north,” she went on. “A lot of time around the Free Marches. I, ah. Think I came from near there, actually. Somewhere.”

She still didn’t look at her.

Sera didn’t like that.

“I’d give you a better description, but I honestly don’t know more than that. I was really young. Things weren’t great. It was complicated, and messy, and a lot of parts are foggy. Deshanna found me somewhere around Hasmal, but I didn’t…really stay with my clan. Not as much as I maybe should have. Then I was south, and west for a spell, and things happened. I was here for a while, mostly moving around Orlais. Spent a quick minute in Rivain, which I wholly recommend. Not sure I'm allowed back in certain parts of Antiva, but it was still one _blast_ of a week. I can’t remember most of it, but I’m pretty sure I had fun in Rialto. A _lot_ of fun in Rialto.”

She stared down at the ground far below, legs softly swinging. “I fucked around in Ferelden for a while. Maybe wandered a bit too far south. My clan wasn’t there, though. Just me. It’s…usually just me. Doing…” She paused. “A lot of things. Mostly pissing off a lot of people. So, yeah. There you go. ‘North wherever,’ the expanded edition.”

“Free Marches, huh?” Sera nodded, still staring out at anywhere else. “Kind of knew it though, right? With that accent and all. You sound like Varric or something.”

“Yeah. He was the first to ask about it. Or, well. The first to know I was _lying_ about it.”

“Pff. Big know-it-all just knows everything, right?” She rubbed self-consciously at her arm. “Good he didn’t say anything, though. That’d have been a proper shit thing to do. Go blabbing about stuff you told him, and whatever. That would have been wrong.”

But Lilith didn’t say anything to that. Not for a long, tense moment. When she finally did speak it was…lower. Less assured. “I’ve done some wrong things. Maybe a lot of them. I mean _I_ thought they were justified, in my expert opinion, but you know what they say. Opinions and assholes, etc. etc. A lot of other people thought I was wrong.”

“Maybe _they_ were the wrong ones.”

“That’s where it gets sticky, though—everyone thinks they’re the ones who are right. And who really judges what right and wrong objectively mean? Is something still right if it started out wrong? It’s just…sticky. A gray, sticky business.”

“Can’t be _that_ bad.”

“I killed a duke once.”

“Now that’s just impressive.”

“It was actually a lot easier than you’d think it would be. The aftermath kind of sucked, though. Did you know you can get banished for that?”

Right, that’d prolly explain the whole ‘exile’ shite then. Not that she’d been snooping. Er…not on _purpose._ Mostly. “I heard you burned down a whole lot of things.”

“Okay, I only take credit for three of those, _tops._ Everyone else just jumped on the mayhem-bandwagon after me. You’d be surprised how much pent up rage comes pouring out when you give a lot of little people a moderate sized push.”

Sera snorted on a laugh. She sort of did know that, right? “You’d have made a good Jenny, you know that?”

“Oh, babe.” Lilith dropped her head against her shoulder with a wistful looking smile. “I would have made a _great_ Jenny. Also, if we’re thinking of the same people, I might have actually crossed paths with a couple. Think I ran into those brothers from Starkhaven you mentioned. Pretty sure they were actually cousins, though. Maybe lovers. It was hard to tell.”

“We _really_ should have met sooner.”

“You say that, but I don’t know—I’m even more good-looking now. I think all the scars make me look distinguished.”

“You look good no matter what. And even when I wasn’t real keen on you, back in the fuck-off days, I still liked your face. I liked your nose. Makes you look _distinguished_ , yeah?” She sucked in a breath, trying to look as casual as possible. It didn’t really work. “So, uh. Right out there and what: I also heard you were a dancer. You know. Like the…” She mimicked her best shimmy. “ _Fun_ kind.”

“Yesterday I heard that I once freed the Empress’s royal menagerie and rode a zebra through the streets of Halamshiral. You’re going to hear a lot of things, and a solid 75% of them probably aren’t true. Out of curiosity though—where’d you hear that one?”

“Three different elves?”

Lilith made a dramatic show of rolling her eyes. “Three people barely even counts as a rumor,” she scoffed. “Come back and talk to me when it hits at _least_ five.”

“ _Pff,_ deal.” She cleared her throat, suddenly nervous. She still wasn’t sure how these things were supposed to go. “…I don’t think you’re wrong, you know. In any of the ways. Not like other people or anything. You’re good, yeah? You’re good people. Wish there were more good people like you.”

“Sera,” she dutifully informed, “if there were ever more than one of me, I would be obligated to fight her to the death. I mean _one_ of us is bound to be the evil one—worst case scenario it’s me, and I have to kill her before she makes me look bad. Or maybe we’d get married. Either or.” She thought for a moment. “And _way_ more stuff would be on fire.”

“ _Hah._ If there was another one of you I’d marry her myself. Er. Not like that. I mean. Not in a weird way. Um. _Ugh,_ piss…”

“You want to hear something really weird?” she offered. “This is not the first time I’ve been banished from a kingdom. Oh, and before I forget…” She fished around in her pocket and pulled out the second half of their failed message crystal. “You can give that back to Dorian for me.”

Alright, fine—so maybe Blackwall called that one. “So, uh…still up for cookies?”

“Always. Maybe take it easy on these ones, though. I made them special.”

Sera snagged one to study, lips quirked in a skeptical frown. “Special with what?”

“A frankly _irresponsible_ amount elfroot.”

Okay, so that definitely made her feel better. Sera snapped her fingers, eyes alight. “Hey, do the thing! The six words thing!”

“And Then Shit Hit The Fan, history in six words or less?” She thought for a moment. “Warm Dalish Homecoming; Disaster Ensues.”

“Nice.”

“I try.”

* * *

 

Sera went and found Blackwall later. He was working on some sort of wood-thing in the barn when she strode up and slapped a handful of coins down on his table. “Alright,” she said, “I know we didn’t make a bet, but whatever. You were right. She found the stupid rock-garbage. So. Here, I guess—you sort of earned it.”

Blackwall just blinked. “…was it Leliana or Lilith?”

“Who do you think? Lilith, obviously.”

“Ah. That…makes sense, I suppose.” He gingerly pushed the coins back her way. “Go on and hold onto those. You can buy me a drink tonight.”

“No, we’re both buying drinks. You just get to buy double. Oh, and…” She added a cookie to his pile of winnings, and offered no further explanation. “Brought you a cookie, too.”

* * *

 

Dorian couldn’t say he was surprised when Sera swung by the hall that afternoon and unceremoniously chucked their failed crystal his way. He watched with a frown as it sunk into the soup he’d been trying to eat. “Was that really necessary?”

“No,” she said. “But it made me feel better.” She dropped down beside him, elbows propped on the table, and gave a loud, trailing groan. “So did you still want to try your magic-listen-y business again, or you about done?”

“I am _definitely_ trying again,” he answered, “but I think I’ll postpone it for a week. And perhaps choose a better target next time.”

“Smart.”

“You flatter me.” He looked down at what was left of his lunch with a fresh wave of bitterness. “Was Lilith particularly upset?”

“Sort of? Not about that, though. I dunno. I guess she’s feeling alright now. Pretty sure something’s gone wonky with _Solarse_ though.”

Dorian gave a deep, deep sigh. Of course it had. “Where is she?”

“Ramparts. Up by the big crumbly bit. We threw a bunch of rocks over the wall.”

“Right then.” He slid his rock-soup away. Truly a waste. “I suppose I’m off to the ramparts.”

“Wait, before you go, here—I brought you a cookie.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oh my god Sera no


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> your comments keep me living; I love you, I love you, I love you, I love

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> today's very special episode: your brain on elfroot

True to word, Dorian found Lilith tossing bits of broken stone off the ramparts wall. She looked up at the sound of his approach and offered a half-hearted wave.

“You’ll be pleased to know I nearly got my message crystal prototype to work,” he informed. “In a sense. Sort of.”

“I am _very_ pleased.” She flicked a pebble into the yard below. “You should know it makes this awful chirping sound, though. Nearly drove Cullen crazy. Which, while hilarious to watch, probably isn’t one of its intended uses.”

“I did say it was a prototype.”

She laughed. This time her pebble hit the roof of the stables. “Hear anything juicy?”

“Apparently someone put bees in the training dummies again, although I’m not sure that counts as ‘juicy.’ Also I’m positive it was Sera.” He slowed to a stop beside her. “…are you shooting for someone in particular, or just aimlessly raining rocks?”

“If I was aiming, I’d have hit someone by now.” She flicked another, and this time it nearly made it into the well. “Although I could probably think of a few potential targets.”

She paused her rain of pebbles to point to an elven man at the other end of the yard. “That’s Garan,” she said. “I beat him at arm wrestling once when we were kids and he’s still salty about it.” She pointed to another, an older woman with long braided hair. “Got banned from hanging around her son a while back. Stupid reason, too. She was scared I’d seduce him, or something. I wasn’t even trying to _date_ him, we were just the only two who could play a good game of cards.” She pointed at a blonde girl across the way. “Now I _did_ try to seduce her, and was also banned by her mother. Although ironically it was for setting a small fire, and had nothing to do with her daughter.”

“Is there anyone present you _haven’t_ personally offended?”

“No,” she answered, “but there are people I’ve extra offended.”

“So I’ve heard.”

“Yeah, yeah—everyone’s hearing all sorts of things. How very scandalous. To be fair, I did warn you all ahead of time.”

“You said you had a ‘tumultuous history.’ I’m not sure that counts as a proper warning.” He clasped her arm, eyes suddenly alight. “Ah! Speaking of juicy tidbits of tumultuous history—I also heard you were a _dancing_ girl.”

“Oh _goddamn_ it.”

“I’ve been keeping a list of my favorite bits of gossip. Previously my favorite was the one about the zebra, but I have to admit I’m growing rather fond of this one.”

“Who keeps _saying_ that?”

“Now me, mostly. I did tell you it was my favorite.”

She said, again, _“Goddamn it.”_

Dorian locked an arm around her shoulder even while she scowled, face plastered with an _insufferable_ grin. “I want you to know I greatly admire your craft. What’s that little slither-crawl thing you all do when your shoes are too tall to walk in? You know the one. Do you have a name for that?”

“You’ve been talking to Sera, haven’t you?

“I already asked; she doesn’t know what it’s called either. Oh, did you have a fun little name you went by? Wait, don’t tell me, I want to guess—Marigold? No, no, Amber. Oh! _Honey!_ ”

“Or maybe Aquinea.”

Which was, of course, his mother’s name. Dorian gave a wholly exaggerated huff. “Rather uncalled for. _Oh_ —was it Ginger?”

“Why are they all _orange?_ ”

“I’d say they’re more gold than orange. Seemed rather fitting. Matches your eyes and whatnot. Now, back to business then:” He pointed to a flagpole off in the distance. “Do you think you could show me how to spin around on that?”

“Well, I mean. Probably, but I don’t see what that has to do with anything. Also it might cost you some fine wine.”

“You have yourself a deal. Just name i-”

She cut him off with the curt answer, “Vint-9 Rowan’s Rose.”

Dorian looked personally offended. “Why are you like this?”

“You heard me.”

“You realize that would be hard for me to get even in _Tevinter,_ don’t you?”

“My offer stands.”

He tried to glare, but it held no fire. “I’ll see what I can do. I make no promises, though.” His gaze drifted to the scattered elves below. “Why aren’t you out socializing, by the way? Was that not the point of this whole business?”

She laughed, head dropping comfortably against his shoulder. She stared out across the yard and heaved a long sigh. “Dorian,” she said. “I am so fucking high.”

Oh. _Lilith_. “Is that the wisest state to be in?”

“Yes.”

He meant to roll his eyes but was frozen by a terrible, creeping thought. “…did Sera make you a cookie, by any chance?”

“No,” she said, which was a fabulous thing to hear. The next part wasn’t nearly as fabulous. “I made them, and I am _exceptionally_ proud of them.”

“Ah.” Well. _Shit_. “That is…hm.”

“…you ate one, didn’t you?”

“No.” Oh, when he got ahold of that girl… “Hypothetically though, if I had, what would I expect to happen?”

“My friend.” She gave a meaningful slap to his back. “Strap in, because I’d say today’s going to be _great_.”

 

* * *

 

 

It was barely past noon, and yet somehow still _far_ too early in the day for this.

“Hey, excuse me, uh…ma’am? … _Mistress_ _Ladyship?_ ”

Vivienne turned from her window and took in a most terrible sight standing patiently at the top of her stairs. Two Dalish elves, a young man and woman. _Twins_.

Oh, Maker grant strength.

The girl—a fox-faced thing with a wary stare and a no-nonsense squareness to the set of her mouth—landed a stinging slap to the back of her brother’s head and corrected, “ _Madame Enchanter_.” She looked to Vivienne with an expression of composed apology. “He’s an idiot,” she explained. “And we have a favor to ask, Madame Vivienne.”

Vivienne didn’t recognize them as anyone she’d yet spoken with, and she certainly would have remembered. That they were siblings was immediately apparent—they shared the same dark eyes, same squared jaw, same high radix of the nose. The same dark, curly hair piled to one side. She noted in mild disdain that they appeared to have matching necklaces.

Ugh. _Really._

Vivienne had long ago grown tired of the novelty of twins. The similarities interested her far less than the stark differences. Her eyes flicked but for a moment to the girl’s rose-shaped eyepatch and the vicious burn that marred the face beneath it.

Now this, Vivienne thought, could be a bit more novel.

“A favor?” She arched a perfect eyebrow, lips pursed. “And what manner of favor would this be?”

“We need your balcony,” the girl explained. “We won’t be more than five minutes.”

“Whatever _for?_ ”

“Comical retribution.” The girl came forward and extended her hand to shake with a much firmer grip than expected. “Marin,” she introduced. “The idiot is Mariel. We’re friends of Lilith’s.”

“Just _Riel_ is fine,” the boy smoothly corrected. “No need for formality; we’re all friends here. By proxy, or whatnot.”

“You can also call him Mary,” Marin informed, and her brother scowled.

“I’d genuinely prefer if you didn’t, Lady Highness.”

Vivienne chose to ignore that title for now. (Although she would certainly revisit it later.) “Friends?” she echoed. Call her cynical, perhaps, but somehow she doubted that. “Interesting. I can’t say the Inquisitor has ever spoken of you.” Her eyes wandered to the bucket in Riel’s fist. “…pray tell, what does this _‘comical retribution’_ entail, exactly?”

Before she could receive a reply Cassandra bound up the stairs behind them, out of breath and furious. She leveled a gloved finger at the pair of elves as if commanding a charge. “I told you this was _off limits,_ ” she huffed. Her exhausted glare turned to Vivienne. “I _told_ them.”

“It really is important,” Marin insisted. “You’re welcome to partake, Madame. Seeker Pentaghast is invited as well.”

Cassandra looked prepared to drag them both down the stairs herself, a feat Vivienne had the utmost confidence she could accomplish, but now the novelty was too much to resist. “Friends, you said?” Vivienne asked again. “I hardly believe that, but I will admit I’m intrigued. Go on, quickly then—explain yourself.”

Riel looked to his sister, whose cool mask never broke. “Have you met an elven man by the name of Roshan?” she asked. “Older fellow; vallaslin looks a bit like an arrow.” She drew out the design with her fingertips and tightened her frown. “Very disapproving.”

Ah, yes. Vivienne had. He’d introduced himself as Clan Lavellan’s elder, and coincidentally had been the one to tell her Lilith was “trouble.” “What of him?”

“Well he’s a bit of a cock, isn’t he?”

Vivienne chose not to voice her particular sentiments on the matter. She expected Cassandra to follow suit.

“Yes,” Cassandra agreed instead. “He is.”

“Of course he is,” Riel affirmed. “So who wants to dump a bucket on him?”

“What’s _in_ the bucket?”

“Justice,” Marin said.

Riel expanded on that with, “Spoiled milk and fish guts, mostly.”

And then there was a terrible, silent moment where Vivienne actually stalled. She and Cassandra exchanged doubtful looks.

“Technically,” Cassandra pointed out, “ _we_ would not be doing anything.”

“Darling, technically we aren’t even confirmed to be present.”

“None of us are here,” Marin reported. “And none of this is happening. Enchanter Vivienne has been instructing us on Circle-approved techniques for frost spells all morning. Seeker Pentaghast oversaw. We were never even near here.” She held out her hand to shake. “Do we have a deal?”

Vivienne would have commented on her audacity, had Cassandra not already clapped her hand into hers and shook.

“Deal,” she agreed, while beside her Vivienne gave a grudging nod. She hadn’t even released Marin’s hand yet before realization made her eyebrow twinge. “…are you _both_ mages?”

“Well yeah,” Riel said, and Marin graciously corrected, “Unofficially.”

“The Dalish don’t have a cap on how many mages a clan can have,” he went on, “but the shems sure do. Your Templars start getting antsy if they see too many staffs at once.”

“Technically we’re archers.”

“Officially.”

Cassandra blinked. “Is that something you should be telling me?”

“You’re Inquisition, right?” Riel waited until she cautiously nodded to continue. “So you’re Lilith’s people?”

“I…suppose.”

“Right. So we’re good.”

Cassandra’s wary frown turned sour. “What does _that_ mean?”

“It means you’re _Lilith’s people_ ,” Marin said. She’d already abandoned the conversation in lieu of scanning the horizon from the window. “Look, ponder for a second. Take a mind journey, if you will. Has Lilith ever given you an order and had you ignore it? You don’t actually have to answer; it was more of a rhetorical question. Of course you haven’t. Just going out on a limb and assuming that.”

“I _respect_ the Inquisitor.”

“And deep down, in your heart of hearts, are maybe just a _tiny_ bit scared of her. No judgement—it’s a good idea. Smart. You’re obviously two very intelligent women—”

“Two intelligent, beautiful, accomplished women,” Riel expanded.

“—so you recognize an unstoppable force when you see one. It would be an insult to your intelligence to suggest you didn’t.” She returned to her lookout post without batting an eye. “And Lilith doesn’t lock up mages, so henceforth and forevermore, _you_ don’t either.”

Vivienne wanted very badly to say something elegantly snide, but they actually kind of had her there. Still, though. “I’m unsure what definition of _respect_ you’re using, darling.”

“All respect demands a degree of fear.”

And Vivienne…actually quite liked that. “You said you were friends with the Inquisitor?”

Riel fought a low snicker while Marin shrugged. “We dated once.”

“She sold me a lot of- ” At a pointed jab from his sister he corrected to, “things. Beads, and…pottery. Fancy looking glass and the like. You know. Merchant…things. Fine silks. Marbles. Some crafts, or something.”

“He’s an idiot,” his sister plainly repeated. “Ignore him.”

A clever tale, but Vivienne still didn’t buy it. “And you feel compelled to harass your clan elder because…?”

“Because he’s a cock,” Marin finished. “And some of us still respect Lilith.” She and her brother passed the bucket between them and spit in turn before offering it to Vivienne. “Here,” she prompted. “Spit.”

“I do not _spit_.”

“I do,” Cassandra offered. She snapped the bucket up and spit twice. “For both of us.”

The creeping smile that darkened Riel’s face was ominous as it was promising. “That mean you ladies are in, then?”

Cassandra looked between the two with a suspicious frown and the tiniest twinge of uncertainty. “I…uh.” She glanced back at Vivienne to offer a weak shrug. “She is not _wrong_ about him. He is-”

“A cock,” Marin finished.

Cassandra nodded. “That is one way to put it.”

“ _Hey!_ ” Riel waved them over, head craned out over the balcony’s edge. “He’s coming!”

Marin snapped up the bucket and offered a hasty _“thanks”_ before ducking out the door. “You can stand back and maintain your innocence,” she called back, “or you can witness retribution firsthand. The invitation is open, Enchanter.”

Cassandra and Vivienne exchanged a wary sidelong glance.

“Don’t look at me,” Vivienne deflected. “ _You_ spit in it.”

Cassandra’s brows knit together in thought. “Retribution,” she finally decided aloud, and the Enchanter agreed with a curt nod and the smallest tic of a bitter smile.

“Retribution it is, then.”

The twins ducked behind the balcony railing, heads kept low. Marin peered out across the yard below with the keen focus of a sniper’s stare.

“Asshole incoming,” she reported, and counted down on her fingers while Riel carefully positioned their bucket. “In four, three, two, and…!”

“ _One,_ ” they announced in unison, and tipped the bucket over the railing.

The results were vocal as they were instantaneous: there was a _splash,_ a chunky-sounding sort of _splatter,_ and then, the most joyous of sounds—the shrill, appalled scream of a retribution-drenched elf. As Roshan sputtered curses below, robes dripping with what was most certainly _not_ just spoiled milk and fish guts, the twins exchanged a silent high five.

Vivienne—dare she say it—quite approved.

And then something terrible happened—Josephine came running up the front steps. “ _What_ on- ! _Who?_ ”

“Skrurel!” Cassandra grabbed Vivienne’s sleeve and _yanked_. “ _Skrurel!”_

“ _Shit,”_ Riel hissed, “ _scatter!”_

The twins were gone in a blink with a flash of a thumbs-up and a rushed farewell of “ _Your Supremeness.”_ Cassandra nearly toppled Vivienne trying to dash back inside with her finely tailored sleeve still clutched in her fist. Far below, the furious echo of Josephine’s voice boomed like thunder on the horizon:

_“Who?!”_

“We were not here,” Cassandra asserted. “ _I was not here_.”

The telltale creak of the front doors sounded below, followed by the threatening click of heels across the stone floor. Cassandra finally released her to hiss a panicked-sounding, “ _Scatter!_ ”

The two split at the library door. Cassandra went left and tried to look as inconspicuous as possible while fake-reading a book she hadn’t realized was entirely in Orlesian, while Vivienne took a sharp right to search for a suitable person-shield.

Instead, she found Dorian.

 

* * *

 

 

Lilith wasn’t sure she’d go as far as to call herself a good person, but she also wasn’t a _bad_ one. After a few too many minutes of stalling she _did_ go to find Dorian. She just…didn’t exactly make it far.

Deshanna intercepted her before she even made it to the castle doors. “ _Ma vher’assan_ ,” she warmly greeted. “I have such good news!” Her smile gleamed like sunlight. “I received word from the Wycome City Council.”

Lilith felt her smile crack. “Oh?”

“The political situation in the city is going exceptionally well. The ambassador I appointed in my stead informs me that everything is proceeding smoothly.”

“Good. It should be.”

“They said my presence has not yet been demanded.”

“That’s…nice,” she said. “That’s good.”

Lilith knew what she was going to say next in the same sense a dog knows when an earthquake is about to strike. “It’s wonderful,” Deshanna beamed. “We can stay longer!”

The ground shifted and cracked, and Lilith felt the gaping chasm swallow her down to the deepest molten center of the earth. “Great,” she said. “That’s great.”

While Deshanna wrapped her in a gleeful hug, Lilith could only muster the energy for a half-hearted pat on the shoulder. “Great,” she said again. “Really, really great.”

Makers, Creators, Forgotten Ones, Bear-Rock-God, whatever other unnamed deities were swirling around out there in the ether, please:

_Help her._

She gave a hasty excuse to flee, some muttered nonsense about work, and dashed off to seek comfort in the arms of the one person who could somehow make this day worse.

Solas was just slipping out the rotunda door when Lilith halted him in place with a hand laid flat against his chest. “Oh my god,” she gravely uttered.

For once Solas seemed uncomfortable with her touching him. He leaned away, shoulders stiff. “Oh?”

“It was supposed to be a week.”

“What was…?” Realization dawned with a bare look of horror. “Oh. _Oh_ -”

“ _Oh my god_.”

“ _Oh._ ”

“ _My god_.” Her fingers curled into the fabric of his shirt. “ _It was supposed to be a week_.”

Solas worked to gently pry her off him while doing his best impression of a man not panicking. “I take it your clan has extended their stay, then.”

“ _The halls of Skyhold will run red with blood.”_

“They will not do that.” He let her hands drop and took a measured step back, still stiff, still cold. “Have you informed your advisors? Ambassador Montilyet will no doubt need to make arrangements.”

“Has the woman not suffered enough? Have _I_ not suffered enough? I mean…!” The rest of her lament dwindled when she noticed Solas clasp his hands behind his back. “…hey,” she softly offered. “Sorry about this morning. I’m just…on edge. I didn’t mean to get mad.”

“Do not apologize. I was… It was a complicated night.”

“I’m sorry I slammed the door. And weaponized my cat.”

“Your cat weaponizes itself.”

“Sorry I was complicit in the weaponization of my cat.”

“A fair apology,” he admitted.

“Maybe to make up for it we can repeat last night’s more _uncomplicated_ parts, hm?” She laid a warm hand over his shoulder and leaned up on tiptoes to kiss him, but something was wrong. He pushed her away, cold, and said only “ _Stop_.”

She sank back. “Oh. I…okay.” She heard the elves behind her snicker. _Gloating_. She wished she could hide the traitorous flush of red across her cheeks. “Fine,” she said.

Just fine.

“I will speak to your advisors,” he informed. “I’m sure you have other pressing matters to attend to.”

“Yeah. Uh. Thanks.” She noticed he still held himself firm, the distance between them still meticulously measured. “…I love you, you know.”

“I know,” he said. It sounded stilted. Emotionless. “By your leave, Inquisitor.”

…right.

Just fine.

 

* * *

 

 

Everything was going well until suddenly it wasn’t.

Dorian was on his way to the library when it hit. He paused at the top of the stairs with the intention to calmly collect his thoughts, and instead stood staring at a wall for a solid, uninterrupted fifteen minutes. He thought, with his last flash of clarity, “ _Shit.”_

His next thought was, _“Did the air suddenly get very heavy?”_ followed closely by, _“Can my mother somehow psychically sense this?”_

He was engrossed in the horrid implications of that when he was blindsided by a shimmering blur of Enchanter.

“Dorian, my dear! _There_ you are.” Vivienne snatched him close with her nails dug tight into his arm, laughing unsettlingly loudly as if he’d just told the cleverest joke. She picked up mid-sentence with a story she most certainly had not been telling him until a furtive peek over her shoulder eased the nervous tension of her shoulders. “Sincerest apologies,” she offered, fingertips unclamping from his robes. “It was an emergency. Remind me to regale you later.”

Dorian stared, and could look only terrified. “…have you been with me this entire time?” The terror deepened. “What time is it?”

A shrill shout of “ _Mustache!_ ” made him jump as Sera bound up from behind and deftly wedged herself between the two. “Sorry,” she rushed, “we’ve, uh…got a thing. Important things. Proper business.”

Vivienne released him with a pursed frown and a roll of her eyes. “I won’t even ask.”

“Good. Yeah. Alright. Uh…bye?” Sera snagged her terror-stricken mage and hauled him away before Viv could change her mind about that. “Maybe let’s not chat up Vivvy,” she suggested, pulling him close with a vice-grip on his arm. “Yeah?”

“Was my voice too loud? I feel certain it was too loud. Am I talking loud right now?”

“Prolly should have warned you ‘bout that.”

“Please don’t tell my mother.”

“I might not have thought about this.” She pondered for a moment. “…huh. Forgot about the others.”

“ _There’s more?”_

“I mean. Maybe?”

“You monster,” he accused. “You beast. You absolute _wretch_.”

“It’s not that bad.”

Varric passed without pause, book in hand, and flatly pointed out, “You both owe me double now.”

Yeah. Sera kind of figured that.

Dorian gripped her arm tighter. “Am I walking normally? This seems off somehow.” He stared down at his hands for a tense and baffled stretch of seconds. “Where do my arms go?”

“Triple,” Varric called back. He never bothered looking up from his book. “Quadruple if you got to anyone else.”

Sera kind of figured that, too.

She dragged Dorian away and sat him down in his chair with the express command, _“I dunno, just sit there and read a book or something,”_ and headed off to track down the rest of her not-so-thought-out cookies.

Blackwall, she found out, had tossed his into the fire immediately upon Sera’s exit. “You think I don’t know the difference?” he scoffed when she returned. “I’d have thought you knew me better. I’m almost disappointed.”

“Well piss. You could have at least given it back.” She stared forlornly at the fire. “Wasted.”

She discovered that Cullen, meanwhile, had stared at his cookie from the other side of his desk as if waiting for it to explode. When he was absolutely sure it didn’t squirm, buzz, or melt, he used it as a paper weight while he signed off on reports. It seemed the most practical solution. Obviously he wasn’t going to _eat_ it.

When Sera swung by under pretense of “urgent secret Inquisition business” she was upset to find he’d apparently given his cookie to someone else.

“I don’t remember who,” he dismissed with a wave. “One of the soldiers who passed through.”

That, Sera considered, might be a problem later.

Oh well.

Apparently Josephine had flung hers straight out a window. (Which was a right pity, in Sera’s opinion, because she seemed like she could use it more than anyone.)

Iron Bull knew exactly what it was the instant she handed the cookie to him. Weirdly, he still ate it anyway. More weirdly, he seemed…fine, actually?

“You’re not feeling anything…different?” Sera prodded. “Nothing weird, or…I dunno, _fun?_ ”

“Nah,” he said. “My back doesn’t hurt as much, though.”

“Ugh, leave it to you to be boring.”

“Sera, I’m four times your size and immune to most conceivable poisons. What did you _think_ was going to happen?”

“I dunno, something fun? Dorian’s having a _right_ ol’ time.”

“You gave one to _Dorian?_ ” Bull laughed so loud the rest of the tavern grew hushed around him. “Oh,” he said, wiping a tear from his eye. “This’ll be _rich._ ”

 

* * *

 

 

Cullen heard about the… _vacation extension._ Josephine very politely informed him and Leliana after receiving the news, and he would never forget it, because Leliana very impolitely replied, “Oh, of _fucking_ course.”

The two stared at their spymaster in twin unblinking dismay.

“ _What?_ ” she demanded, arms firmly crossed. “You were all thinking it.”

Josephine looked positively shaken. “Truly, Leliana, Clan Lavellan has not been _that_ -”

“It is not _them,_ ” she corrected. “It is _these_.” She pointed to a fresh stack of papers—unfurled scrolls, opened parcels, letters upon letters all cluttering the war table.

“What are those?” Cullen asked.

“This morning’s deliveries from my agents,” she explained. “And if I am ever given time to actually read through them, tomorrow’s kindling.”

“They’re all about Lilith?” He glanced over the stack with notably more interest. “That certainly was fast. How many agents do you have, exactly?”

Leliana blatantly ignored that last question. “I never said they were all regarding Lilith.”

“Well then…?”

“They are important documents,” she corrected, “which may or may not contain incriminating evidence regarding our Inquisitor. I am taking care of it.”

“You can’t just burn everything, Leliana.”

The Spymaster locked steely eyes on him, arms still held tight. “I,” she informed, “can burn anything.”

No one argued with her on that. Probably for the best.

Feeling useless, Cullen did the only thing left that felt helpful. He stole a slice of cake from the kitchen, and went to find Lilith.

He tracked her down in the garden after a helpful—if somewhat cryptic—tip from Cole. He found her cross-legged on the ground, her Keeper humming a familiar tune on the bench behind her as she twined Lilith’s hair into braids. The sunlight pouring through the leaves above turned the air a hazy sort of gold. Deshanna’s smile held all the warmth of summer.

“My beautiful girl,” she fawned, but Lilith was silent.

She stared ahead with a blank sort of fury. An awful, empty look. “Maybe I don’t want to be beautiful.”

They both looked up when Cullen cleared his throat. “Inquisitor?” he offered. “I, ah…I thought you might be hungry.” He presented his stolen confectionery and felt a wash of relief at the familiar crooked smile it earned.

“Isn’t that for tonight?” she ventured.

“Well, yes, I suppose, but… It is technically _your_ kitchen.”

“I like the way you think, Commander.” She graciously accepted, and Cullen felt better than he had in days. It’d been too long since he’d seen her smile.

“I…I like your hair.” He made some nonsensical twirling gesture. “With braids. It looks very nice.”

“I look twelve. But thanks.”

“You don’t look twelve.” He stared awkwardly at the space behind her. “I think you look quite lovely. With any hairstyle, not just…not to imply you don’t anyway. It’s just different like this. Nice, of course. Still nice.”

“But do I still look like I could crush a man’s skull in my fist? Because more than anything that’s really what I’d like people to see. Pretty girls come and go—skull crushers are forever.”

Deshanna gave her hair a tug, mouth screwed into a disapproving frown. “Goodness, Lilith, just take the compliment. The man’s doing his best.”

“You’re a very lovely skull crusher,” Cullen amended. “And you don’t look twelve.”

Lilith laughed. Cullen had missed that, as well. “What, are you itching for a promotion?”

“No, I just… I thought you should know. How people see you.”

“People, huh?” She stared down at the ground, lips drawn tight. “Well. People are awfully nice.”

“You truly do look lovely.”

“Look at you, being all sweet. You trying to compete with Dorian as my favorite person?” Suddenly the smile vanished, eyes going wide in a flash of cold terror. “Oh my god,” she uttered. “ _I forgot about Dorian_.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 01\. [Marin.](http://archiveofourown.org/works/9013993)  
> 02\. [Riel.](http://archiveofourown.org/works/8233976)  
> 03\. ["elfroot's medicinal properties were discovered in 4:20"](https://twitter.com/patrickweekes/status/578937137556430848)


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> eat your drugs responsibly, kids

Lilith was not the only one to have forgotten about Dorian.

Apparently reality had, as well.

Dorian spent the better part of his evening in his bedroom, feeling _far too many things_ and hating exactly _all of them_. Sera, at least, had the decency to sit with him.

He stared up at the ceiling from the floor, tense and reeling. He couldn’t remember why he didn’t want to be on the bed, but he knew he didn’t. Maybe. “You’re a monster,” he informed. “You’re a monster and I’ve been physically disconnected from the earth.”

Sera sat cross-legged with her back against the bed. Somewhere in her cookie-tracking travels she’d picked up an especially interesting stick, which she presently used to scratch scribbles into the floor. “So maybe Lilith did some stuff,” she pondered aloud. “Who even cares? It’s not like I’d give two shits if any of that rubbish were true, you know? I mean obviously. You think…someone else would, though?”

“Stop talking; everything you say sounds like you’re in a play. I can’t explain that to you at present. Just stop talking. Please.”

“Hey.” She poked at his shoulder. “How you feeling there, fire-arse?”

“Insignificant.”

“Aw, no. You’re one of the not-fun kind.” She tried to accomplish a sympathetic pat with her stick but ended up sort of whacking him. “You want a drink or something?”

“ _Maker, no._ Just let me…lie down. Here. Forever.” He stared at the ceiling with the intensity of a man staring down the open maw of a dragon. “My god. I’m well over a third of the way to my death.”

“Yeah. Not-fun kind. Sorry about that—I really thought this would turn out better.”

“I abhor you.”

“You do not, shut it.”

“How do you do this? How does anyone do this?”

“Oh, you were the only one that ate one. I mean, Bull did, but I think Qunari are different or something? And then me and Lilith, obviously, but that was over and done ages ago. Huh. Maybe it really is an elfy thing for once. That’d be hilarious, though, right? _High elves._ Hah.”

“I have so many teeth.”

“Ugh.”

“When does this _end?_ How long has it been?”

“What, since you started getting weird? I dunno, few hours, I guess?”

He uttered, with no small amount of deep-seated dread, “ _No._ ”

Sera was attempting another sympathetic stick-pat when Lilith burst in, wild-eyed and out of breath, with a rushed shout of, “ _I am so sorry_.”

Dorian screamed.

While Sera lost herself to a mad fit of cackling, Lilith tried her best to shut the door as gently as possible. “My poor baby,” she cooed. “My precious son. I am so sorry.”

Hand still clutched to his chest, Dorian managed a dazed sort of scowl. “Stop calling me _son_ ; you’re _my_ age! I…! _Are_ you my age? Are you younger than me?” He stared up at the empty air as if gazing into an eternal abyss. “Do you even have an age? Do you even exist within the scope of mortal time?” The terror only intensified. “Lilith, _who decides time?_ ”

“I’m so sorry,” she said again. “You definitely weren’t supposed to eat that much.”

“ _What if this isn’t how old I am? How would I know? Lilith, how would I know?”_

“My baby,” she mournfully repeated. “Your fragile human body was not meant for this.”

“Oh he’s _fine,_ ” Sera assured. “You’re just fine, aren’t you, mustache?”

But Dorian only stared ahead into the abyss and murmured, horrified, “ _Who decides time?_ ”

Lilith looked—if it was possible—even more haggard. “He’s not fine, look at him. You’ve sent him into an existential spiral.”

“Hey,” she defended, “I’m trying to help! _I_ wanted to go get drinks.”

“Oh my god, no, _don’t mix them!_ ”

Sera returned her attention to her stick-scribbles with a heated _hmph._ “Not _my_ fault he’s all…sad-like. Tell him to stop thinking so much.”

“I have seen terror,” he gravely uttered. “Everything is meaningless. We are alone.”

“You’ve ruined him!” Lilith accused. “Listen to him! You’ve introduced him to deep existential dread!”

“He introduced himself! _I_ don’t feel any dread.”

“Sera, he’s just a child!”

“I’m _thirty!_ ” he protested from the floor. “Maker’s breath, I’m a grown man! I have a _mustache!_ Sera-” He tried to snap his fingers, but apparently forgot the correct way to do that. “Tell her.”

Sera offered a weak shrug. “I mean, he does. He’s not wrong.”

“You’re a figurative baby,” Lilith explained. “A drug-cookie virgin. Also, _human_. This was not a good place to start your venture into delinquency, my friend.”

“Can I throw it up? Is it too late? Here, make time go back—just…do it over. Start again.”

Sera looked to Lilith with a doubtful frown. “You wanna tell him, or should I?

Lilith sighed. “That’s not how time works, babe.”

“Is time but a mere structure of human perception? Does time even _exist?_ ”

“Dorian,” she gently reminded, “we literally traveled through time together. With magic _you_ helped theorize. You understand time.”

“I understand nothing.”

Lilith looked a mix of exhausted and defeated, and Sera wasn’t sure which was stronger. “I made a mistake,” she said. “I made a terrible mistake.”

“Aw, come on,” Sera tried to encourage. “It’s not all bad. Oh, oh, you should get _Solarse_ to have one. Might make him less…arse-y.”

Lilith was supposed to like that, but she didn’t say anything. Not even a giggle, and that was…that was weird. “…you alright?” Sera tested. “You and elfy are, you know…good, sort of?”

“Let’s just focus on the task at hand.”

“He do something?”

“No. I’m good. We’re fine.”

“If he does do something, though, you’d tell me, yeah?” She ground her fist against her palm with a purposeful glare. “And I could bash him right on his stupid egg head. Really crack ‘im. _Whack!_ Right on the dome.”

Lilith finally laughed, which was good, but she didn’t actually agree, which wasn’t so good. Sera frowned.

“ _Egg,_ ” Dorian howled. It was hard to tell if he was laughing or crying, or maybe both, but it seemed to be a good kind. At least someone thought it was funny. “ _Crack him!_ ”

“Look,” Lilith said, “I’ll be back later, but right now I’ve got a whole other disaster to deal with. So for now can you just…I don’t know, watch him? Make him drink some water.”

“Lilith,” Dorian begged, “please don’t tell my mother.”

“And don’t tell his mother,” she added. “Maybe read him a nice story or something. Something light. You know any kids’ stories?”

“ _I am a man._ An old, dying man. A fleeting spark in an endless void of existence, accomplishing nothing, changing nothing. What is a lifetime in the face of cold eternity?”

“A nice kids’ story,” Lilith reaffirmed. “Something light.”

Sera mimicked a loose salute. “Aye, aye, Inquisitor. On it.”

Once Lilith was gone she looked back to Dorian and gave him another poke with her stick. “So, you wanna hear about the time I got my head stuck in a fence?”

“Fences are a societal construct.”

“…right. So anyway, there I was, tearing arse across some noble prick’s herb garden, chicken under my arm…”

 

* * *

 

 

Solas was a flawed man—at times a _deeply_ flawed man—but he still had his strengths. He was careful. Tactful. He had _control_. He’d survived a millennium, had weathered wars, disasters, the end of the world as he knew it…!

And yet.

Lilith touched a hand to his chest while delivering the news of her clan’s stay, and suddenly Solas felt like the weakest man in the world. It took everything in him to pull away. To deny her. To hold back dizzying confessions of adoration when she told him without an ounce of uncertainty that she loved him.

He was sure he’d never felt so weak.

And then Lilith, as was habit, found a way to prove him wrong.

The red glow of sunset colored the evening ominous. Solas had just finished explaining to Josephine that no, he had not seen whoever assaulted Clan Lavellan’s elder, when an exhausted looking Lilith trudged up looking a thousand years older.

“Well,” she announced, “we have a son now.”

Solas had fought battles with less terror than he felt then.

“He’s a thirty-two year old Tevinter mage,” she went on, “and he is having one _eventful_ evening.”

“ _Dorian,_ ” he clarified in a shaky tone that came too fast. He felt an instant wave of hysteric relief, which was logical, undercut by a simmering kind of…disappointment. Which was very much _not_ logical.

_Control, Solas…_

She reached for his hand and grasped only air when he pulled out of reach. “…oh.”

_Control, control, control control_

“Um…” Deshanna waved from the other side of the hall, and Solas was relieved when Lilith called back, “Coming.” She glanced back at him with a wilted smile. “Later?”

“Later,” he lied.

 _Careful, tactful, keep_ control, _Solas…_

“Lilith?” he ventured as she turned to leave. “I-” _Care, tact_. “...I like your hair like that.”

“I look twelve.”

“You do not.”

She laughed, and suddenly he felt like he had no strength left at all. “Charmer.”

Solas hated how hard it was not to follow her. Hated, at the moment, so very many things.

To take his mind off things he could not do, Solas spent the rest of his evening busying himself with the few things he still could do. He gathered up the scant smattering of papers he’d… _surreptitiously borrowed_ from Leliana, and went to work researching. Their Spymaster must have gotten wise to her suspiciously missing letters—all correspondences she received were promptly burned upon reading. Solas wasn’t able to slip into the rookery until long after nightfall, hours after the rest of the castle had retired, and even then, he had to take care not to be noticed.

Not that anything he found would matter, of course. Whatever it was they worked so hard to keep hidden. Lilith was-

_beautiful, indomitable, fearless_

-a force of nature, surely, but there was nothing she could have done that would change his opinion of her. He knew who she was, what she was capable of; he sought no new insight on that. It was just…

She spoke so little of her past. Of her life before the Inquisition. They’d discussed so many things—had shared stories, dreams, winding discussions of magic and morality and the nature of gods and men, and yet… Some of the most basic details of her life still eluded him. Lilith would happily answer all manner of obscene questions, but when asked about family or old friends or _birthdays_ she deftly twisted away. He still didn’t know how old she was. Where she was really from. He still didn’t know what it was she’d done to warrant an exile. Solas could hardly be angry about it—after all, he, too, had failed to tell her as much—but…

He only wondered. There was no harm in wondering. Of course he had no malicious intent—he was merely curious. Intrigued.

 _Suspicious,_ a dark part of his mind let slip. _Wary_.

 _Curious,_ he scrambled to correct. He was only _curious_. Curious about her past, her life before the Inquisition. The ventures of a younger Lilith.

 _Curious,_ came the flash of a thought, _about how she could hurt._

No. Not that.

In the end it didn’t even matter—as was his luck, he’d stolen the wrong reports. As if he needed yet another reminder that his care and tact were slipping. Whatever information he’d managed to slip from Leliana was painfully unrelated to Lilith. If he’d been seeking information on the weather in Antiva four years ago then yes, he would have been very successful, but alas. As clever as Lilith’s little butterfly speech had been, she held no actual power over hurricanes. With a bitter frown, he finally abandoned his research efforts. This was not the information he was looking for. Whatever he had been seeking had likely met a fiery fate at the ever-diligent hands of their Spymaster. Whatever was left—missing persons reports, accidental deaths, natural disaster records—was for something else entirely.

Not that it mattered. Of course.

After far too many hours of waiting and sneaking and morally ambiguous borrowing, he made it as far as the rotunda. He descended the darkened library stairs with books in hand, and was greeted by a sight that at any other time would have been happily welcome: Lilith, sat primly atop his desk, clad in what he could only describe as 1/6th of a silky nightgown.

“Can’t sleep?” she innocently inquired, and far less innocently uncrossed her legs. “I bet I can fix that.”

Lilith had hoped to receive a similarly welcome sight in response. Namely him, pressed against her, in exactly 0/6ths of clothing. Instead she got something very different.

His eyes never left her face. “It is late,” he evenly informed. “I appreciate the gesture, however the timing is…inopportune. Perhaps another time.”

“…wait, are you serious?”

“I’m sorry, I just… Not tonight. You are-” _Intoxicating, irresistible, too ravishing to deserve._ “-lovely. Truly. But it is late.”

She sat up straight, no longer content to lean back on outstretched arms. “Are you _serious?_ ”

“Lilith-”

“No, fine.” She hopped off his desk, sultry smirk souring into a scowl. “I’ll just go _fuck off,_ then.” She tore off the 1/6th of her nightgown and chucked it to the floor in a balled-up heap of silk. “ _Keep it._ ”

Solas watched her stalk off, naked and fuming, up the library stairs. Moments later he heard the reverberating _slam_ of the door leading to Vivienne’s room, and then the fall of an awful silence.

Solas wanted to dissolve into nothing.

Apparently the fates took that as a challenge. In a truly cruel twist he heard footsteps descending the stairs, but when he looked up it was not Lilith he saw—it was Dorian. Their new son, apparently. He could not contain his disappointment.

“Solas?” Dorian softly inquired. “Could I ask you a question?”

Oh, of all the awful times… “I don’t know.” He didn’t bother looking up. “ _Can_ you?”

“I…believe so?”

“Yes,” he broke. “Fine. What do you want?”

“Can elfroot be lethal?”

Solas did not have the patience for this tonight. “Anything _can_ be lethal,” he said with an exhausted sigh. “Sunlight can be lethal. _Water_ can be lethal. If you have an actual, _defined_ question for me to answer and not a broad inquiry on general capability then by all means, please-” His rant cut off abruptly when he actually turned and looked at Dorian. “…ah,” he finished with instead. “I see.” He took a careful moment to consider how best to proceed. “No, Dorian, elfroot is not lethal. You will not die. It will not last. Tomorrow you will be fine.”

“…should I see a healer?”

“No.”

“Just for a consultation?”

“You do not need to do that.”

“If I bring a healer here, will you explain to them what they need to do?”

“Dorian, there are people with real ailments. You will be fine.”

Dorian still idled at the base of the stairs, hand gripping the archway. “You would tell me if I was dying, wouldn’t you? We’re friends. We’re almost friends. We’re colleagues.”

“We’re- yes,” he relented. “Colleagues. Wait here a moment.”

He left for the undercroft, and returned moments later with a vial of something blue. Dorian reached to accept it before even being offered. “And this will counteract it?”

“No, this will put you to sleep.”

“How do I counteract it?”

“You do not. You go to sleep. Tomorrow you’ll be fine.”

“Is it safe to sleep like this?”

“Yes.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes.”

Dorian took a moment to evaluate that verdict. “I made a mistake,” he gravely decided.

“You did,” Solas agreed. “You should never accept food from Sera.”

“I don’t know how you do this. How do elves do this?”

“That is _not_ what elfroot is for.”

“Have you done this?”

“ _That is not what it is for_.”

“We’re colleagues,” he repeated. “Don’t let me die.”

“You won’t die.”

“I had soup earlier. Does that make a difference?”

“It does not.”

“It was a tomato-based soup.”

“Again,” Solas assured, “it does not matter.”

“Why is this happening?” he marveled. “Maker, it’s been _hours_. How is it lasting so long?”

“You are _not,_ ” Solas stressed, “supposed to _eat_ it.”

“I’m too pretty to die like this.”

“You will not die.”

“You keep saying that, but I don’t believe you.” He stared hard at his hands, brows furrowed in dire contemplation. “How do elves do this?”

“ _We do not._ ”

“How does Lilith do this?”

“I-” A sigh. “Your guess is worth as much as mine.”

Solas would have liked very much to send him on his merry way, but realized with chagrin that he’d forgotten how to get back to his room. Dorian stood with the vial still clutched in his fist and stared ahead into nothing, until Solas finally prompted, “Can I help you?”

“Yes, how would I go about finding my room, exactly?”

Gods help him.

He was gently corralling Dorian out the door, doing his best to steer him in the right direction while still keeping him at arm’s length, when he went and piped up with, “This could very well have been a complete hallucination, but there is equal probability it was not, so I must ask—did Lilith just run through here naked?”

Well. No point in lying, he supposed. “She did.”

“Ah, good then. Typical Tuesday.”

Solas resisted the reflexive urge to inform him it was not actually Tuesday.

Dorian babbled on, much to his building distress. “Do you actually think she was a dancing girl?”

“I do not put stock in base rumors. I would advise you not to, either.”

“While a fittingly condescending reply, it didn’t answer the question.”

Solas unsuccessfully fought back a glower. “Is that truly pertinent?”

“Is that a yes, then?”

“ _No,_ ” he snapped. “Or— _ugh_. Why would I _possibly_ care?”

Dorian laughed, dazed and far too delighted for Solas’ taste. “Not to overstep, but if my significant other possessed such _particular talents_ , I’d rather like to see them in action, wouldn’t you?”

When they finally arrived at Dorian’s bedroom, Solas may have shoved him through the door with a touch more force than intended. “ _Goodnight,_ Dorian.”

“Goodnight,” he blearily echoed, “egg.”

“I’m sorry, what…?” On second thought. “Never mind. Goodnight.”

He managed to put Dorian to bed without further complication—a small miracle if ever there was one. He would have to remember to chastise Sera later. As if that would do anything.

_Of all the nights in the world…_

Solas returned, alone and exhausted, to an empty rotunda and an unread stack of papers. Suddenly clandestine research had lost its appeal, though. He took a weary seat, and tried not to think of Lilith. He _certainly_ tried not to think of her naked, which proved difficult when he glanced down and spotted the silky remains of her discarded nightgown.

It was red. She did look so _very_ lovely in red…

 _Stop,_ he warned himself. _Take care._ Thoughts like those would lead nowhere beneficial. He’d maintained stronger resolve in the past; he would not be felled by errant thoughts of red silk and ruby lips. He was careful. Tactful. He could control himself.

Please. He could not fail here, too.

 

* * *

 

 

_Of all the fucking nights._

Lilith marched up the library steps, bunched shoulders tossed back in furious defiance, through the empty loft, outside down the wind-whipped corridor, and slammed open the door to Vivienne’s bedroom. While a sleep-shaken Enchanter gasped out a bleary, “ _What in the world- ?”_ Lilith ripped a decorative throw blanket from a chair and spat out, “ _I was trying to be sexy.”_

Wrapped up in a cocoon of plush velvet, she spent the next half-hour hissing curses that Vivienne wholeheartedly agreed with. Her only advice was, “Perhaps bring an extra change of clothes with you next time you seek to make a dramatic parting gesture.”

“I was committed,” Lilith defended.

“Yes. I can see that.”

“I matched my lipstick to my nightgown.” She tried to keep her frown from sinking into a pout. “ _I re-braided my hair.”_

“And any other man would no doubt appreciate it,” Vivienne assured. “You simply picked the worst one.”

“I like him.”

“I cannot imagine why.”

“We got drunk and talked about chaos theory.”

“Chaos,” she informed, “is not worth color coordinating lipstick.”

Eventually Lilith sulked off to her own room, still clad in Vivienne’s favorite decorative throw blanket (much to her distress). As promised, she took care not to let the tassels drag on the floor. Although she may have wiped her nose on it. Vivienne didn’t need to know about that, though.

It seemed Solas was avoiding her, which wasn’t exactly new. He also refused to touch her, which was…a little more of a surprise. She wasn’t sure what was going on there. Or, well…

She thought back to snickering whispers behind her back, to boys with familiar, vicious words.

_She’ll give it up for anyone, you know._

_Who knows where she’s been? Or who she’s been with…_

_Creators know_ I _wouldn’t touch her._

A prickling fury set her teeth on edge, but beneath it flickered a horrible burn of…not shame, she refused to be _ashamed;_ her past was hers and they knew _nothing,_ but-

She couldn’t help but wonder what whispers Solas had heard. What snickering rumors shared by boys with no right.

She slammed her chamber door shut with too much force. “Whatever.”

She wasn’t sure what she expected when she climbed the stairs to her room. She knew what she _hoped_ for, but hope and expectation were two very different things. Lilith knew more than enough about that.

The room was empty. Of course it was empty. Lilith spent the night working through troop movement reports, papers spread out across the bed, while the dying fire cast her room in shadows.

“Whatever,” she hissed.

Just…whatever.

 

* * *

 

 

Solas did not trust his dreams not to betray him again. This time when he slept he ventured into the Fade—his one remaining comfort—and sought out remnants of old memories long dead. Hazy half-memories from a time before the fall, before he became the man he was now—flashes of a past he only barely held on to. It was not often he dwelled in constructs from his own memory. He preferred places yet unexplored, dreams and impressions shaped by others, but…

Tonight he needed solace. Something old and familiar. He let himself slip untethered into the echo of an old memory like settling into a favorite book.

The forests were brighter here. _Alive._ The air around him still hummed with a blissful, ancient magic he would never stop missing—a soft and comforting kind of _life,_ as if the earth itself was breathing. He fell into place with ease. Watched, and forgot, and suddenly he was back.

Such ventures into old memories did not function the same as the waking world. It was not visiting so much as _reliving_. There was no consciousness here. No break from remembered script. It only _was,_ and suddenly he was _not._

There was no Solas here. Or was, perhaps, but in name alone.

There was nothing here of the man he’d become.

This memory took him back to some old, forgotten day—a peaceful venture alone through a pathless forest. The trees were thick here, old and towering giants that blocked out the sun above. If others had trekked this path before him, it was long, long ago. The underbrush was nearly impenetrable this deep, the ground swallowed up by twisting roots and ferns that loomed like towers of green. Whatever beasts lurked here were silent as they were hidden.

It would have been easy to get lost here—others likely had—but Solas was young, and determined, and he had no fear of lurking terrors.

Perhaps he feared nothing at all.

He narrowly maneuvered through a dense cluster of trees, head ducked low to avoid grasping branches, and couldn’t help but feel a smug sense of pride. He’d never ventured this deep into the forest before. He had no doubt he could easily push ahead farther.

There was very little, he thought, that he could not do.

Up ahead the undergrowth thinned, gave way to a mossy clearing, and if he moved just right he could squeeze between the drooping branches and see the softest touch of light. He saw a bed of nettle, a blanket of decaying leaves. 

He saw-

A girl. White-haired and freckled. Humming to herself. She sat perched atop a fallen tree trunk, legs neatly folded, her hands busy fussing with some tangled string of weeds in her lap. She had yet to notice his approach, and he had no plans to change that.

He did not recognize her.

He sank back a step, careful, silent; cocked his head to study her with narrowed eyes. A girl with kohl-smudged eyes and lips far too red. An ugly little thing, he thought—all angles and spots. She broke her hum to intersperse a string of words here and there, a song half-forgotten, and he risked a cautious step closer.

Strange. He had never seen her before. He wondered why she was here—alone—so very far from home.

“You know,” she said aloud, “sneaking around isn’t a very good way to make friends.” She never looked up from whatever craft she was working on. Somehow that only irritated him further.

“You should not be out here,” he warned, and frowned at the low hum of her laughter.

“You’re out here, aren’t you?”

“I am not you.” Strange, ugly little thing. He moved closer, careful to keep a wary distance. “You know there are dangerous things lurking in the forest.”

She laughed without bothering to look up from her work. “How do you know I’m not the dangerous thing?”

“How do you know I’m not?”

“I don’t know—you don’t look so dangerous to me.” She glanced up with an arched brow and the smallest quirk of a smile. “I like your hair, by the way. Been getting a lot of sun?”

Strange, strange girl. “Does the dangerous girl have a name, then?”

“A few of them. Do you?”

His careful stare sharpened. “That wasn’t an answer.”

“It was,” she said. “Just not the one you wanted.”

“Has anyone ever told you smugness is unattractive?”

“Then I guess you and I should get on well then, right?”

“Hm. Quaint.” He ventured a suspicious glance at whatever she was crafting—a tangle of branches and weeds, painstakingly ripped to shreds. “What are you making?”

“You’ll see when it’s done.”

“Or you could just _tell_ me.”

She laughed. A brazen sort of cackle. “Has anyone ever told you that patience is a virtue?”

“Do I seem overly concerned with virtues?”

“You seem overly concerned with a lot of things.” She held back laughter behind tightly sealed lips. “ _Solas_.”

His frown soured into a glare. He did not like that she knew his name. “Have we met?”

“Now _there’s_ a question.” She motioned to a patch of ferns at his feet. “Hand me some of those, will you? I can’t quite get the structure of this down.”

He thought about refusing, but his curiosity won out. He ripped out a handful of fronds and reluctantly brought them to her. Whatever mess she was so engrossed in still eluded him. “Why are you out here?” He scanned the overgrown brush around them for signs of another, but the woods were silent. Empty.

“Well you can’t be the only intrepid explorer in these parts, can you?”

“I usually am.”

“And there’s your first mistake,” she plainly informed. She looked up from her work only to flash him a wink. “Never underestimate the unusual.”

“I shall keep that in mind.” He moved closer, cautious, circling. “…are you alone?”

“Of course not. You’re here with me, aren’t you?”

“That was not what I meant.”

“Then maybe you should be more astute with your questions.”

“Perhaps _you_ should be less vague with your answers.”

She nodded. “We should both be a lot of things, probably. Here.” She patted the spot beside her. “Sit.”

“I’d rather not.”

“Oh, come on, I won’t bite. Unless you’re into that. Then we could probably arrange something.”

He couldn’t help but laugh at that. “A bold offer from a nameless girl.”

“Is that a no, then?”

Bold, indeed. “I suppose we’ll have to see.”

“Such a _tease,_ ” she chided. “It’s alright—I know how irresistible I am. You can’t blame yourself for falling victim to my feminine wiles.” She swiped her tongue across blood-red lips with a smirk that drew him closer.

Strange, bold girl…

“Do you plan on making any other bold offers, perchance?” he asked, and was oddly delighted when it earned a crooked smile.

“Maybe. Did you plan on taking me up on one?”

“That depends on the offer.”

“My, my. Now who’s the bold one?”

“Still you, I imagine.”

 _That_ truly did make her laugh. He would admit he was becoming rather fond of the sound.

“…how did you get here?”

“Same way you did,” she said. “Wandered.”

“I did not wander.”

“Navigated, then. Is that better?”

But that was…not what he meant. “Do you even know your way back?”

“Of course,” she assured. “I’m a very good navigator. Do you know _your_ way back?”

His answer came with an offended huff. “Obviously.” He still refused to sit, but he hovered just a bit closer. Curious. Watching. “Aren’t there tales warning against lone girls wandering through forests?”

“Navigating,” she corrected.

“Navigating. Yes. If you so insist.”

“There’s tales about a lot of things,” she granted. Her smile turned devious. “Have you heard the one warning against prideful boys?”

He would have been irritated had he not been so thoroughly committed to breaking down this strange and terrible girl. He snickered, moving slyly nearer. “There are no tales of boys like me.”

“Oh, I bet I could tell a few.”

“Go on then,” he challenged. “Regale me.”

The delighted closed-mouth giggle she gave was maddening as it was intriguing. “There once was a boy who met a girl, and foolishly thought he was more dangerous than her.” She glanced up and grinned. “What a silly, prideful boy.”

His eyes narrowed, glaring, but he still smiled. Couldn’t help himself. “Is that a challenge?”

“Do you want it to be?”

Oddly, he couldn’t quite decide on his answer to that. He took a slow moment to consider.

“And what if I do?”

The girl gave no answer—only set aside her craft, and for the first time stood at full height. She stepped closer, eyes gleaming golden; slid a splayed hand flat against his chest and pulled closer with a hand at his shoulder.

He thought to kiss her.

He wasn’t sure why. Perhaps because he could.

But then she jabbed her knuckles square into his sternum.

“Pierced heart,” she plainly informed. “That’d be a point for me, then. You know, for a dangerous thing, you should probably be better at this.” She gave his shoulder a meaningful pat and turned back with that infuriating _laugh,_ and he was left feeling a very _many_ things.

The girl retook her seat and returned to her project without another glance his way. “What’d I tell you?” she said. “Prideful boys.”

 _Strange, smug little…_ “Has it ever occurred to you that you might be overestimating your abilities?” His eyes wandered, allowing a quick, sinful glance lower. “As well as your supposed irresistibility.” The loose collar of her dress draped awfully low. Perhaps if…

“No,” she said. “I think I’ve estimated pretty well. Or did you want to challenge that, too, _Solas?_ ”

Yes, he thought. Perhaps he did.

“Finished,” she announced. “Here. For you.” She presented him with a woven crown of brambles and nettle. A sharp and ugly thing. Her fingertips bled where tiny thorns pricked through skin. It smeared the intertwined band of ferns with red.

He wasn’t sure why he accepted it. It was a strange, terrible gift. “What makes you think I can’t resist you?” he asked. His hands already stung.

“Call it intuition.”

“Intuition is inevitably flawed.”

The nameless girl laughed. A brazen, terrible sound. “ _Banal nadas,_ ” she promised, and her ruby smile turned wicked. “ _Fen’Harel._ ”

All at once the world ripped down around him, the Fade buckling under a dizzying crash. Solas felt himself ripped back to reality, back to a dead and suffocating world, as if pulled to the bottom of the sea.

_Banal nadas._

Solas awoke with a shuddering breath like a drowning man gasping for air. It took a horrifying moment to recognize the darkened walls of the rotunda around him. His heart still raced. Still pounded.

“ _Lilith?_ ”

But no. No, that wasn’t right—she wasn’t part of that memory. _Shouldn’t_ have been. There had never been a girl, no strange encounter, no riddling conversations. That never happened. He still remembered that day, that walk through the forest, and he remembered he’d been alone. _Knew_. So…what, then? Had it been a spirit? A demon? Some curious, lurking thing that slipped unnoticed into his thoughts and twisted the Fade around him? Something drawn in by his own subconscious desires? Or was his mind truly so weak that he could no longer bend the Fade to his will; could no longer preserve a memory without constructing something new?

 _You’re slipping,_ some dark part of him warned. _This world has made you weak. Soft. She’s gotten inside your head. You’re losing control._

“I’m not,” he said aloud, which he realized did nothing to strengthen his claim of sanity.

No, no, that had been…that was only…he…

Heart still beating at a traitorous pace, Solas shoved himself up from his desk and tried not to run to Lavellan’s room. When he burst through her door and up the winding staircase, he almost expected her to be waiting for him. She wasn’t, of course. He slowed to a stop at the top of the stairs, breath coming too fast, too uneven.

Lilith sat in the middle of her bed, surrounded by a mess of papers. She looked up with an exhausted glare. “Can I help you?”

He…wasn’t sure how to answer that. “Have you been awake this whole time?” he asked instead.

She returned to her papers with a shrug. “On and off. You know me—I never stay asleep for long.”

Yes. Right. Of course. “Are you…alright?”

“Busy,” she said. This time when she glanced up the furrows of her brows softened. “Are _you_ alright?”

“Fine. Yes. I…a dream. That’s all.”

“Was it a sexy dream? Or better—was I in it?”

“No,” he said. “…no.”

She gave an uninterested _hmph_ and returned to her work. It seemed she was charting something—scribbling notes in the margins of maps. “You finally coming to bed, then?”

“No. I…still have work to do.”

“You know it’s almost sunrise, right?”

“Pressing work,” he tried. “I wanted to finish before I lost my train of thought.” His gaze drifted back to the papers fanned out around her. It appeared she’d already emptied two bottles of ink, one of which was presently soaking through a pillow. Her fingertips were already black. “You realize you have a desk, do you not?”

“This is easier.” She gestured absently to a stack of books at her bedside. “I’m done with these, if you want to take them back to the library for me.”

“You’ll only succeed in exhausting yourself if you keep working without rest.”

“Yeah, well. You know what they say.” She didn’t bother looking up. “Nothing is inevitable.”

Solas felt his heart drop. “What did you say?”

“Nothing,” she brushed off. “Could you bring me that atlas I lent Dorian while you’re down there? I think he’s still got it sitting next to his chair.”

_Banal nadas._

“Yes. Of course.” He gathered up her discarded books without a word. He looked up only when he heard Lilith hiss in a sharp inhale. She gave her wrist a decisive shake, palm surging green for a split second. Solas tried not to look as startled as he felt.

“Is the mark troubling you?”

“It’s nothing,” she stated. “Just acting up. It’s fine.”

“…have you been using it recently?”

“Have you seen any errant rifts around Skyhold?” When he fell silent she returned to her work, hand curled tight. “Didn’t think so. So, atlas then? Yeah?”

“Yes,” he agreed. His eyes drifted back to ink-stained fingertips. “I will find it.”

He was already halfway down the staircase when her voice echoed down, a brazen, terrible sound:

“Sweet dreams, _Solas._ ”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 01\. [a point for me, then.](http://archiveofourown.org/works/5710678)  
> 02\. ["banal nadas"](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=to4fz4Katok)
> 
> concept-art Solas can get it tbh


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> holy FUCKASS batman, this took way too long to update :')  
> have an incredibly long chapter to make up for it (and once again, I love you all, immeasurably <3 y'all give me life and I honestly can never thank you guys enough)

Dorian awoke as if resurrected from the grave. He rose with a bleary yawn and a painfully dry mouth at half past noon, and worriedly—thankfully—could not recall a solid 60% of the previous night. He remembered he was mad at Sera. And he remembered-

_Fasta vass._

He remembered Solas.

“ _Sera_.” He uttered the name under his breath like invoking a curse. “ _Festis bei umo canavarum_. I am going to _skin_ her.”

At first he seriously considered never speaking to Solas again. It would not be the first time he cut someone out of his social circle after a night he’d rather not remember. However, living under the same roof made that endeavor just a _touch_ more difficult.

Ugh. Civility was a _curse_.

He passed through the rotunda on his way to the library, casual as could be, but when Solas didn’t bother looking up from whatever project he was working on, Dorian was forced to initiate first contact. He cleared his throat and prayed. “So.” Maker guide him. “…thank you, then, I suppose.”

Solas glanced up for only a moment. “We will not speak of it.”

“That would be for the best, yes.” He turned to leave but was stalled by new awful thoughts. “…out of curiosity-”

“You spoke only to Vivienne and I. No, she did not notice. I believe Lilith wishes to speak with you. Sera is to blame. Drink water.”

“Right. Thank you.”

“Sera is in the training yard, if you wished to speak to her.”

“She’s not at it again with the bees, is she?”

“I genuinely do not care.”

“That’s…fair.” Dorian meant to leave their conversation at that—should have left it, probably—but of the shaky 40% of last night’s memories, a few in particular stood out. “On a completely different subject, since I’ve got you here—what, exactly, is going on between you and Lilith?”

Solas visibly tensed. “I beg your pardon?”

“Don’t look at me like that, I’m trying to be helpful, for once. Consider it repayment for last night. I’m doing you a favor. Now, clearly _something_ happened. I can’t very well advise you if you don’t tell me what you’ve gone and done.”

“ _Advise_ me? I-” Whatever tirade he was building up to fell away with a terse sigh. “I was under the distinct impression you did not approve of our relationship.”

“Oh, no, I still don’t. If you ask me she could do _scores_ better. But agonizing over that right this second seems a bit counterproductive. Wasn’t the idea to _not_ complicate this reunion business any further?”

“Of all people,” he said, “what would possibly lead you to believe I would talk to _you_ about such matters?”

“I don’t know. We’re both mages? We both have very distinct ideas regarding what constitutes style?”

Solas glared.

“Well neither of us is a _complete_ idiot, at the very least. We both care about Lilith. Yes?”

“Yes,” Solas conceded with a broken sigh. “We do.”

“Oh, and I did watch you die once—I suppose that counts for something.” At Solas’ baffled look he went on, “At Redcliffe Castle. In the alternate-future. You know, that whole business.”

“Ah. Yes. I read the reports. I fail, however, to see how that qualifies us as _friends_.”

“Oh, come now—I’d say that’s a rather intimate experience.”

For a moment Dorian thought he wouldn’t respond at all. Finally, though, he broke: “You were right. She could do better.”

“Of course I’m right; I’m always right. But that’s beside the point. What is your goal here, exactly? Ignore her until she forgets you exist? Did you want her to _break up_ with you?”

He was surprised when Solas answered honestly. “That is not what I want.”

“Did something happen?”

“No. Or…yes, but she has done nothing. The fault is mine. Not hers. Any further details are _private_. Leave it at that.”

“…is this to do with her family? Did you square off with a drunk uncle? Tell an embarrassing story to an aunt? Give me something to go on.”

He answered, simply, “No.”

“Well fine,” Dorian huffed. “Turn down help from a trusted colleague. See if I care.” And he truly should have stopped there, but- “…you know she kissed you, yes?”

Solas grudgingly turned his attention back to him. “What?”

“In Redcliffe. The somewhat-but-not-quite-future. She kissed you. Did you read _that_ in the reports?”

“I-” He faltered, stern expression crumbling. “What?”

“I’m not sure how to simplify that statement any further. Which part seems to be confusing you?”

It seemed Dorian had finally succeeded in snagging his full attention. Solas abandoned the papers atop his desk. “Tell me what happened.”

“Do I look like a bard to you? Go ask her yourself; I’m not getting paid to tell stories.”

“As a professional courtesy,” he pressed. “…for a colleague.”

Dorian gave a dramatic sigh, but acquiesced, still. “So there we are,” he began, “in the main hall, demon army at our door—I needed time to work out the spell Alexius used to re-open the rift, so you lot...well. You bought us time. There you go, marching off to certain death, looking appropriately grim, and Lilith shouts ‘wait,’ takes you by the collar, and _kisses_ you. Says, ‘See you on the other side.’ Leliana didn’t seem pleased, I’ll tell you that much. Probably on account of the demon army.”

“That-” He shook his head, troubled. “That makes no sense. We were not-”

“Together,” he finished for him. “No, you weren’t. It surprised me, too. The world’s ending, a mysterious ‘Elder One’ coming to finish us off, and this daft woman seems to think it’s the perfect setting for romance.”

Solas pondered that for a moment. “Did I say anything?”

“No. You just…left. And then you died. A ghastly business, that. And here we are.” He gestured to the walls around them, his story concluded. “So. Be nice, I suppose the moral of that story is. The poor girl loves you, for some Maker-forsaken reason.”

Dorian had hoped Solas would be happy to hear that, but for some reason he only looked heartbroken. “She never told me that.”

He feigned surprise. Barely. “Lilith? Withholding information? Egads—how utterly unheard of. Now stop brooding and go do something nice for her, won’t you? Maker knows she’s earned it.”

“…yes,” he agreed. “Thank you.”

“Consider the favor repaid. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got a delinquent elf to confront.” He was halfway out the door when a hesitant call of “Dorian?” stopped him.

“If you see her,” Solas said, “can you tell her… Just tell her I’m sorry. I would like to speak with her, when she has time.”

“Am I a messenger boy now? Your personal servant? Shall I do a little dance for you on my way out?”

“Please refrain.”

Dorian rolled his eyes, but his frown ticked upward into a smirk. “Yes, yes, fine. I’ll tell her.”

“Congratulations on your crystal, by the way. I’m impressed.”

“I really can’t stress enough that it was a prototype.”

“An impressive prototype, nonetheless.”

“…right, I’m sorry, are we friends now? Not trying to be glib, I genuinely want to know. It’s hard to tell with you.”

His ever-solemn exterior was broken by a smirk. “Do not get ahead of yourself.”

“There we are, there’s the trusted colleague I know and tolerate.”

 

* * *

 

Vivienne was doing absolutely nothing wrong.

Despite her teensy little… _silverware mishap_ at the start of the week _,_ she still believed herself to be the most successful of her companions in this little reunion venture. Perhaps she wasn’t actively helping the cause, but at least she wasn’t hindering it, either. At this point, that was an accomplishment all its own. As long as she stayed out of this dreadful elf business, she was certain she could manage.

In fact, she was doing just that—minding her own business in the privacy of her balcony retreat, contributing to no delinquencies at all—when that awful little _demon_ came to ruin her day. She didn’t see Cole huddled at the bottom of her steps until he spoke up, a grim murmur beneath that dreadful hat.

“ _Damned elves,”_ he hissed in another’s tone. “ _Probably eyeing all that gold. They’ll rob us blind if we continue letting them run wild like this. I saw them down by the shops, skulking about. Sneaking. The Ambassador will hear about this._ ”

Vivienne looked up with a start. “…I beg your pardon?”

“Him,” he clarified, and pointed to a man down below. “He’s on his way to Josephine to say…a lot of things.”

Vivienne blinked. “I see.” She looked down at the man in question, presently stomping across the throne room, then back to Cole. Well then. This certainly wouldn’t do. “Wait there a moment, won’t you?” she instructed. “I’ll be back.”

She swept down the stairs and poked her head into the library, waving for Cassandra’s attention as she discussed something with Helsima. “Cassandra? Could I request your attention for a moment?” She looked back to Cole for but a second before adding, “And fetch the Iron Bull, please. Possibly Blackwall as well. Or…whatever the man is calling himself now.”

Cassandra politely excused herself, and glanced back with a tight-drawn frown. “…for what purpose?”

“A hunt,” she stated simply. “Thank you, darling.”

Vivienne waited patiently, keeping a wary eye on Cole all the while, until the Seeker returned with Bull and Blackwall at her side.

“You needed something, ma’am?” Bull asked.

“Yes. It appears I require your services. Cole-” She snapped for his attention. “-be a dear and tell our friends what you told me, hm?”

The boy— _thing_ —looked nervously between them before beginning, head lowered, “ _Heathens, those elves. I saw them by the chapel. What purpose have they there? The Chantry has no room for their hundred false gods. I shall pray they find the Maker’s light, but first they must leave.”_ He cleared his throat, a gesture newly learned. “Um. Lilith says it’s rude to say what people are thinking without asking them first, but I don’t think Sister Amelia is allowed to do that. I don’t think you can make someone leave because of that. Should I…tell her to stop? I’m still not sure how this is supposed to work now that I’m a person.”

Cassandra just stared, mouth agape in horror. “What was _that?_ ”

“Your mission today,” Vivienne stated, “should you choose to accept it.”

Bull gave a long, trailing groan. “Aww, _come on,_ I didn’t sign up for any weird demon crap today.”

“He’s not a demon,” Blackwall defended. “Leave him be.”

“He’s reading their minds! He doesn’t have to be a demon for it to be _weird demon crap._ ”

Cole raised his hand, and slowly pointed to the window. “Seggrit is about to say something he shouldn’t. You should…probably go stop him. I don’t think you’re supposed to ask an elf that…”

Vivienne looked to her new recruits with an expectant stare. “You heard him,” she prodded. “Off with you. Quickly, please—and perhaps take care of this _Sister Amelia_ first. The last thing we need is an Exalted March on Clan Lavellan.”

And, well…they couldn’t exactly argue with that. Cassandra and Blackwall both nodded their acquiescence, and Bull, left with no other choice, heaved a great sigh.

“Yes, ma’am.”

The four marched down the staircase with Cole in the lead, Blackwall’s hand firmly on his shoulder, in the oddest damned hunting party any of them had ever been in. Bull and Cassandra trailed behind at a safe distance.

“Is this truly an appropriate use of…” Cassandra gave Cole a nervous once-over. “Whatever he is.”

“He’s trying, is what he is,” Blackwall defended. “You leave him be. The boy’s trying to help.”

“We are _hunting people down_ for crimes they have _not yet committed_ with the help of a _demon_.”

“He’s human now,” Blackwall argued. “For all intents and purposes.”

“He’s…! Well he’s _something_.”

“I’m right here,” Cole pointed out. “And I’m not a demon. I don’t think.”

“You’re a fine young man,” Blackwall affirmed. “And you’re helping.”

Bull’s only contribution was a tepid wave of his hand, and an unconvinced sounding, “Ehhh?”

“You…might want to stop him,” Cole suggested, pointing to a man bounding down the steps toward the yard outside. “He thinks his knife is stolen, but it’s not, he only forgot. He wants to fight the boy he thinks is a pickpocket.”

“Got it,” Blackwall affirmed. “Let’s go keep the peace.”

“…he is a pickpocket, but he didn’t steal the knife.”

“Maybe let’s leave that part out for this particular mission,” Blackwall gently suggested. “One thing at a time.”

“I’ve got Seggrit,” Bull announced. “Cassandra, wanna take the Sister?”

She nodded. “Got it.”

“We’ll regroup here, five minutes,” Blackwall called over his shoulder, already pushing Cole out the front doors in pursuit of their newest target. “Quickly, then! To action!”

Cole swung back to point to a young elven man in passing, but snapped his mouth shut as soon as he opened it to speak. “A- oh. Never mind. Not that one.”

“What?” Blackwall asked. “What’s he thinking?”

“It’s…not about Lilith. Um. We should find the man with the lost knife instead.”

“What’s that one thinking, though?”

“Nothing I’m supposed to repeat. Or at least according to Varric. He says that’s not something we say out loud.” He craned his neck to catch a fleeting glimpse of the young mage as he strolled into the castle, headed straight for the library. “…technically I _think_ it’s a compliment.”

 

* * *

 

So Sera was no help at all. How very shocking.

Dorian found her, alright, right there in the training yard where Solas said she’d be, but upon marching up and demanding an apology, she decided to feign perfect innocence.

“Dunno what you’re talking about,” she said. “I didn’t do nothing.”

“You fed me _drugged baked goods!_ ”

“No I didn’t.”

“Oh, you little troll. You know damned well that you did! I have _witnesses!_ ”

“Nope,” she said. “Wasn’t me.”

Behind her, one of the training dummies faintly buzzed. Typical.

“You demon!” he shouted. _“Stop putting bees in everything!_ ”

He tried to find Lilith, afterward, but oddly couldn’t seem to track her down. Even her usual haunts—the gatehouse, the undercroft, that dusty little library down by the cellar—turned up empty. Feeling exhausted already, he slunk off to the library to seek solace in his books. At least _those_ had yet to betray him. (Not that he was ruling it out as a possibility—for all he knew, that little blonde she-devil may well have stuffed some bees in those, as well.)

Huddled snug in his corner of the library, he was flipping through one of the only books on elven culture he could find when the distinct feeling of eyes at his back pulled his attention upward. An elven man stared back at him. Dark-eyed and square-jawed, with frankly fantastic hair. He flashed a sly smile. “Dorian, was it?”

Dorian blinked. “Um. Hello.”

“You know, if you want to know more about elves, I’m sure I could spare a moment for conversation.” And Maker help him, the boy _winked._ “Bet I know things your book doesn’t.”

“What- Er. And who are you, again?”

“Riel,” he answered, as if that name was supposed to mean something to him. It starkly didn’t. “So you’re from Tevinter, are you?”

“…yes?”

“I hear it’s hot up there.”

“I…suppose. Um. Have we met?”

“We have now,” he said. “Are you a magister, then, or just one of the regular old mages?”

“…ah. Just the regular one.” Slowly, cautiously, he closed his book. “Are you a relative of Lilith’s?”

“Relative? No, just a dear friend. Has she not mentioned me?”

“Not that I’m aware of, no.”

“Well, she’s certainly spoken of you.”

“Has she, now?” Dorian knew for a fact she had not. He was rather curious where this would go, though. “And what has she said?”

“That you’re about the handsomest magister she ever has seen. Or, sorry—regular old mage.”

“ _Hah_. Well, it’s not hard to see that.” He glanced around the library, scouting for signs of a trap. He swore, if Sera was behind this… “Not that I’m actually planning to take you up on the offer, but if I were, what exactly is it you offer that a book doesn’t?”

His slow-growing grin was positively sinister. “I could think of a few things. Interested in a comprehensive oral history of Dalish customs?”

Dorian stared. A minute. Two minutes. “…you have got to be kidding.”

“I mean, if you’re really set on learning something boring, I guess I could show you some spells. Do they have Arcane Warriors up north?”

“We have Knight Enchanters. Is that not the same thing?”

Faraway, echoing up from the rotunda down below, Solas’ voice broke the peace: “ _NO, IT IS NOT_.”

“Yeah,” Riel agreed, “it really isn’t.”

Behind them, Bull and Cassandra burst through the door with Blackwall in tow, pushing Cole in front of them like a battering ram. “Out of the way!” Bull commanded. “Preemptive justice coming through!” The mishmash ensemble barreled their way through, marched up to a researcher quietly reading off in one of the library nooks, and Dorian watched, baffled, as Cassandra slapped the book out of his hand.

“There is no such verse in the Chant of Light,” she chastised. “Shame on you!”

“Now,” Blackwall said, “who’s next?”

Cole pointed wordlessly to a scout across the room.

“Hey! Asshole!” Bull pointed an accusing finger his way, and the poor boy froze in place. “ _She’s not interested!_ ”

While the four of them ran off after their new target, Riel leaned in close, shooting a suspicious side-eye their way. “Who are they?”

“No idea,” Dorian flatly dismissed. “I’ve never seen them before in my life.”

 

* * *

 

Okay, not to sound arrogant or anything, but.

Varric deserved a goddamn medal.

While the rest of his compatriots fell one by one, Varric followed close behind to pick up the flaming pieces of their wreckage. It was not an easy task.

The whole Var Bellanaris grave-robbing incident was tough to dress up, but not impossible. He painted a story of sacred ground plagued by demons, of a heroic quest to cleanse it of evil, of respectfully laying anguished souls to rest.

“You should talk to Keeper Hawen, he can tell you all about it,” he assured a skeptical group of elves, and sincerely hoped they were never able to do that. “Really beautiful ceremony, too. It had everyone in tears.”

Explaining away the cat required a bit more effort. He told them the thing belonged to a group of elves they ran into in the Emerald Graves, the poor dead bastards out investigating Din'an Hanin. Said it was the only living thing left when their party came to check on them; that strung around its neck was a scrap of paper cryptically bearing the name _‘Fen’Harel,’_ and nothing more. That last bit was probably more detail than was needed, but everyone was a sucker for a good mystery. The Dalish seemed intrigued.

“Lilith wanted to call it something else,” he promised, “but that was the only thing it’d answer to. And it felt pretty disrespectful to change its name when its owner just sacrificed himself in pursuit of Dalish history, you know? I mean, maybe he only named it that as a joke, or maybe it was some kind of offering—who are we to say? I’m not going to question the poor kid. He was a hero; we weren’t about to insult him by re-naming his cat.”

The elves wondered why on earth a Dalish clan would take a black cat with them on their travels—and what could possibly lead them to name it _Fen’Harel_ —but Varric deflected with more grandiose talk of the Emerald Knights, and the fascinating discovery of the scroll detailing the events at Red Crossing. They _loved_ that. And better, they stopped talking about Lilith altogether.

He couldn’t think of a good excuse for teaching Sera written Elven, but he could deftly misdirect it.

“Oh, no, she only knows how to write names,” he lied. “Only Keepers know how to actually write it, right? But you know Lilith; always going on about Elven—and honestly, how could you not? Beautiful language. Poetic. Hey, what’s the word for ‘thank you,’ again?”

“You mean _ma serannas_?” an elf perked up to ask.

“ _Ma serannas,_ that’s it. I can never say it right. How do you say ‘honored’?”

He spent the next hour entrenched in an Elven vocabulary lesson he definitely didn’t need, but the elves were all too happy to have an eager ear. By the end of it Varric walked away with six different ways to say “hello” and an invite to a private lesson on dialects by their chief linguist. No one mentioned Sera again.

Curly was actually really easy to make up an excuse for. Like, stupidly easy.

“His mother was made Tranquil,” he lied, voice hushed to a dramatic whisper. “It was a whole ordeal, a real tragedy—why do you think he’s not a Templar anymore? Obviously you were just joking, but you know, you don’t really get over something like that. It still sets him off. Traumatic memories, you know?”

The elven woman who their oh-so-cordial Commander had threatened to kick out looked positively aghast. “Poor man,” she sympathized. “I had no idea.”

“Yeah, he doesn’t like to talk about it. Don’t tell him I told you any of this—he likes to keep it private.”

“Of course,” she eagerly agreed. “The poor thing. I’m sorry I brought it up.”

Varric wondered, fleetingly, if the Maker punished people for this.

To be honest, it wouldn’t be the most egregious of his sins.

As for the Clan Elder… Even _he_ would touch that one. Lilith was on her own, there. Likewise, he left the Leliana incident alone. If anyone could clean up their own mess, it was the Spymaster. Trust him, she didn’t need any help on Varric’s part. Now, the contraband tableware was a little stickier to cover up, but damned if he didn’t try.

“Oh, you thought that was _real_ halla horn?” He did his best impression of amusement and prayed it took. “No, no, we got those from this fancy Dalish craftsman up North—real convincing, though, right? He was pretty proud of it—said it was the first of its kind. Honestly, Dalish craftsmanship never ceases to amaze me. You’re the only ones who know how to work with Ironbark, right?”

Varric wasn’t even sure if there _were_ any Dalish clans to the north. Thankfully, they didn’t know, either. He got them talking about the unique difficulty of crafting with Ironbark, and no one else blinked twice at their unfortunate choice of dining utensils.

Seriously. Someone owed him a medal.

He was chatting up their warleader, spinning some utter bullshit to explain why every weapon in the armory seemed to have an offensive name attached to it, when he caught sight of Bull and Blackwall out of the corner of his eye, steering Cole around the yard like a divining rod while Cassandra stalked behind them, eyes narrowed in a hawkish glare.

“Which one?” she demanded, and Cole wordlessly pointed to a soldier across the yard.

“You!” she shouted, hand falling to the sword at her hip. “ _Drop that cookie!”_

…yeah, Varric didn’t even want to know. A problem for another day, if ever there was one.

Clan Lavellan was placated—at least until someone else went and said something stupid to them—and that was great and all, but…

Shit, he didn’t know. He hadn’t seen Lilith around for a while. Something didn’t sit right. He knew something was up with Solas, although he truly had no idea what. Lilith hadn’t said anything about it—instead he’d heard it from Sera, and that was the really troubling part, because Lilith…sort of told him everything? He never was sure why. Maybe because she knew no one would ever believe him if he told, or maybe because she knew he never _would_ tell.

Maybe because, in flashes of moments, she reminded him of Hawke—and now that Hawke was gone, flashes of moments were all he had left of her. Maybe Lilith knew that. Maybe she knew he wouldn’t risk losing this one, too.

Varric found her out on the ramparts that evening. Just sort of…pacing. Alone.

There was something ominous about the way she paced, the sharp turn on her heels, the anxious energy bunching in the rigid line of her shoulders. A feral sort of discontent, like a great cat waiting behind a locked door, stalking passing shadows. Varric cleared his throat, but offered no greeting.

Hawke used to pace when she was scared, too.

He handed her a newly-opened bottle of wine. One of the actual good ones he kept personally hoarded. “Something tells me you’re going to need this.”

Lilith looked touched. “Have I ever told you you’re my favorite?”

“Almost daily, but I haven’t gotten tired of hearing it yet.” He leaned against the ramparts wall, gazing out at the low light of sunset. “So. Some crowd, right?”

“If it gets any worse than it already is, please do me the kindness of shoving me off this wall.”

“Oh, come on, it’s not that bad. As far as family reunions go, I’ve seen a lot worse.”

“I sincerely doubt that.” She cast a wary side glance his way. “Any thoughts on this week’s revelations, by the way?”

“Look who you’re talking to,” he said. “You want to smooth over some creases in your history with a few white lies? Go for it. Honestly, it works pretty well most of the time.”

“No questions, then?”

“I’m pretty sure I’m the only one in this entire Inquisition who knows when your birthday is. I figure if there was anything else you really wanted to tell me, you’d probably have done it by now.”

She sized him up with a critical stare before giving an appreciative nod. “You’re alright, Varric.”

“Just alright? What happened to _favorite?_ That sounded way better.”

She laughed, and shit, Varric was happy to hear that sound again.

“Thanks for the wine,” she said.

“Consider it a consolation gift from all of us. Also, I’ve got four more.”

“How much did this cost you?”

“Me? Nothing. Everyone else? A lot of gold and a little dignity.”

“A group bet, huh?”

“I tried to tell them it was a bad idea, but no one ever listens. It’s almost like they don’t trust me, or something.”

“I can’t imagine why. You’re the picture of an upstanding citizen.” Her hand fluttered to her chest as she gave a wistful sigh. “When are you going to forget about Bianca and just come run away with me, already?”

“We already talked about this, Killer; our kids would be too beautiful, it wouldn’t be fair to the rest of the world. Besides, are Dalish elves even allowed to date dwarves? Isn’t there some kind of ancient elven law about that?”

“Varric, they invited you to visit them in the summer. They don’t even invite _me_ to visit. And they’re _my clan_. At this point, marrying you might be the only way to redeem myself.”

“Well, if we’re both still single in ten years, then sure—let’s get married. Neither of our families are invited to the wedding, though.”

“I vote we elope. Maybe go somewhere tropical. How do you feel about a pirate wedding?”

“Perfect,” he said. “I know just the captain to officiate.” It took a beat too long for him to find the words he needed. Longer still to say them. “…hey, you’d, ah…you’d tell me if something was wrong, right?” A break in charade betrayed softer emotions. “You’re ok, right?”

“Have you _seen_ my family?”

That wasn’t what he meant, though, and that wasn’t quite an answer. He suspected she knew that already, though.

Hawke used to pull that, too.

He let her keep the wine for herself—he’d brought another bottle, anyway. Frankly they both earned it. They drank away his winnings while the castle yard below dimmed from sunset-gold to the murky purple of evening, and spun more plans for grand events that would never happen. Comforting lies, and hazy half-truths. When darkness finally settled over the mountains she tapped a fingernail against her empty bottle. “You said you had more of this, right?”

“Damn right I do.”

“Good.” She chucked her bottle over the wall’s edge and watched it smash against the rocks below. “What are we waiting for, then?” she asked. “Let’s get fucked _up_.”

 

* * *

 

Solas refused to dwell on his dream.

Whatever he encountered the night before—demon or spirit or shameful momentary lapse in self-control—he would not waste energy on unraveling it now. Whatever it was, it was a fluke. Simply a single moment of weakness. Nothing more.

It could not possibly be anything more.

He did not see Lilith all day, but then again, he did not seek her out. He did mean to apologize. Truly. And if he happened upon her he would surely do so, but…perhaps not now.

 _Banal nadas, Fen’Harel_.

The rotunda, normally his place of reprieve, seemed tainted tonight. Too near to watching eyes, too open, too fouled by troublesome memories. He escaped instead to the cellar library under pretense of reading, but knew too well he meant to hide. From what, though, he could not say.

 _Banal nadas, Fen’Harel_.

He thought to retire early—had tried, in fact—but sleeping was…complicated. His bedroom, that strange, foreign place, offered no comfort. No peace. In the quiet darkness, behind his closed eyelids, he found only cold and hollowness. He thought, troublingly, of Lilith.

He’d…not forgotten, he could never _forget,_ but he may have failed to consider just how often they were intimate. He remembered quite well now.

He thought of Lilith, of the fluid little swivel of her hips when she walked, of bare skin and blood red silk, and Solas suddenly remembered a great many things. Of course he put no stock in base rumors, but…he could certainly see how she might have garnered reputation as a _dancer._ Not that he thought about that. Or…

Hm.

He’d gone so long citing Lilith as the reason they shared a bed he hadn’t realized how much he did it for himself. Sleeping alone had never been a problem before—for the most part it was _preferable_ —but…

He’d gotten used to her warmth. The weight of her arms draped over him. The soft sound of her breathing. Suddenly the weight of silence felt smothering, the cold absence beside him sharp and painful. He…wished she was here. He wished he could touch her. He wished more than anything he didn’t feel like this.

Sleep came fitfully no matter how hard he tried to find peace. Every time he rolled over his hands wandered to an empty bed. He was used to waking with her curled beside him, skin warm, breath even. Often enough he’d wake up with her hand firmly on his backside. Curiously, he kind of missed that too.

Late in the night when she inevitably awoke, anxious and fretful, Solas would stir awake to the feeling of soft kisses at his neck. A brush of lips against his ear, the slow creep of calloused fingers up his arm, the warmth of her cheek against his shoulder. She always had to touch. Always had to connect. _Hold_. And some nights…

Some nights when he awoke to her lips at his throat his arms would tighten around her, and he’d pull her close and smile into a slow, savored kiss; would feel her touch slide, and would let his own hands wander; would settle on the curve of her waist, over her hip, caress down the muscle of her thigh and slip between-

_No. Not that._

_Treacherous memories,_ he warned. _Foul, guilty memories._

And some mornings he would awake to her between his legs, and she’d trail feathered kisses down his stomach, over his navel, down to the sensitive crease of his thigh, to-

_No, no, not that either._

Some mornings in the pink filtered light of the rising sun she would murmur words of filth and affection, and she would drag her tongue-

_No, no, no, that was the wrong thing to think. Give him any other memory, anything but-_

-and she’d swallow and _hum,_ calloused fingers smoothing over his thighs, and she’d wrap her lips around-

 _Fine_. So perhaps this had been a mistake. In retrospect his memories seemed the least safe refuge for him. After all, Lilith was…their time together was…

 _You are weak,_ he chastised. _You are weak, and she is too strong. She operates in fury and fire and you let yourself get caught in the blaze. She was warm. She was interested. She-_

 _She loves he,_ he mourned. _You let her see so much of you and she loved you still. She loved and wanted and you couldn’t resist._

Solas tried to sleep, but only awoke in a shameful state, anxious and flustered and… _aching._ He could not find solace in his dreams. He could not escape to the Fade. He could not face Lilith. And so like a coward, he hid.

The library door creaked softly open, and Solas was ashamed of how relieved he was to see it wasn’t Lilith. Cole appeared in the doorway like a phantom, eyes wide and haunting. Solas knew what he came to say before he even said it.

“You have to stop,” he pleaded, voice a grave murmur. “She thinks it’s her fault, and it’s _hurting_ her. I promised. It doesn’t work if she hurts.”

Yes. He had been expecting this. “I thank you for your concern. Truly. I understand your intentions are good, but this is not something I can discuss. Leave it at that.”

“I _can’t_ ,” he whined. His fingers curled anxiously into the hem of his shirt. “She’s my friend. I promised.”

“The matter is private,” he maintained, and was not proud of the steely edge to his voice. This was not Cole’s fault; he wanted only to help, and Solas knew that, but… “Please. This is not something you can help.”

“She knows what they say. Even when she doesn’t hear it. She _knows_.” His voice dropped, tone shifting lower to imitate another. _“He must have thought he was her first. Pity. He should have known she’d never stay loyal. Girls like her never do. Mad girl. Troubled girl. Sneaky little whore.”_

“ _Enough.”_ It took him a moment to compose himself. Perhaps longer than he was comfortable with. “That is… We are not discussing this now. That has never been true. She knows that has never been true.”

“It was true before.”

“She knows that is not-”

“Stop saying what she knows; you don’t hear her like I do. Nobody ever _hears_. So much weight and it’s all _too heavy_. She thinks the breaks don’t matter but they leave cracks. You see? Like little pieces stuck back together again. Cracks upon cracks upon cracks, like so much crumbling stone. She can carry it but it can’t be forever. I don’t think it can be forever. I…it’s too hard to _see_ , but it’s not fair. She doesn’t need to hurt. I promised. She’s my friend.”

Nothing was fair. Nothing had ever been fair. “Tell me,” he ventured, “what do you see when you look inside her mind?”

But Cole looked confused. “What? No. It’s not _inside,_ or…is, I think, but that isn’t how I see. She only let me in once, and it was an accident. I was not supposed to be there. That was different. She’s my friend. I know because she lets me. I _listen_. It’s different.” The grim line of his frown wavered, unsteady. “Friends _talk_ to each other.”

“You saw inside her once, though. What did you see then?”

“Did you want me to tell her what I see in _you?_ ”

Cole’s new shift toward human was beginning to become apparent. The response was far too snippy for Solas’ liking. “No. I would rather you didn’t.”

“Then don’t ask me what I see in her.”

He supposed he should have foreseen that.

“You would know if you just _talked,”_ Cole pressed on. “When people care about each other they _talk._ You’re people. I know you care. Just _talk._ ”

“If only it were so simple.”

“It is simple. You make it not.”

Solas had no energy left to argue. Instead he only stated, simply, “She knows that is not why.”

“It doesn’t make it feel any better.”

He sighed. “Thank you. I will take that into consideration.”

“You care,” he insisted. “I know you don’t mean to hurt her. But you’re being-” He cut off in a furious, frustrated noise. “You’re being an _asshole.”_

Solas frowned. “Hm. Yes.” This was precisely what he’d hoped to avoid. This world was rubbing off on Cole, and in the worst ways. “Are you quite enjoying being human?”

“Sometimes. Yes.”

Solas thought back to hazy conversations over wine; winding discussions of the hypothetical.

_“What if you fail?”_

He remembered her response—would always remember.

_“Then I carry that weight.”_

Solas wondered just how much weight she carried with her. How much disaster she bore on her shoulders. He wondered how strong she truly was, and how strong she would remain. _Could_ remain.

Solas wondered so many, many things.

“I will speak to her,” he promised. “Are you satisfied?”

“No.”

Ugh. How very _human_.

“She’s upstairs,” Cole informed. “She’ll be asleep soon. You need to talk. People _talk_.”

“I will,” he said. Perhaps he meant it a bit more that time.

…or perhaps not.

He did leave to find Lilith. And he found her, just as Cole instructed. She was just…not in an ideal state for conversation.

She was gathered with Varric at the far end of the hall, huddled before the fireplace. When she caught sight of him from across the room, she leveled a condemning finger at him, eyes narrowed to furious slits, and gave one booming command: “ _No_.”

Solas slowed his approach as if afraid to startle a sleeping beast. “Are you feeling well, Inquisitor?”

“I’m not talking to you,” she briskly informed. She turned back to Varric. “Tell him I’m not talking to him.”

“She’s not talking to you,” he repeated for her, and offered an apologetic shrug. “Sorry.”

“…have you been drinking?”

“I won a bet,” Varric dutifully explained. “…wait, were you part of that bet? Do you owe me money?” He looked back to Lilith, expression clouded with doubt. “I think he owes you a drink, too.”

Ah. Lovely.

“Is this a wise state to be in, Inquisitor?” He tried to rein back a glare. Failed. “Master Tethras?”

“Come on, Chuckles, let her have this. She’s had a bad day. Or…week.”

“This is irresponsible behavior to engage in, especially with the present company.”

“Well you’re asshole behavior,” Lilith retorted. “Varric, tell him.”

“You heard her,” Varric said. “Stop engaging in asshole behavior.”

A common theme of the day, as it were. “Lilith,” he gently encouraged, “you should sleep.”

“Sleep is for children,” she said. “I am the Inquisitor. I am an adult. And I am going to bed. Because I want to, not because you told me to. You can’t tell me to do anything. I’m marrying Varric and we’re going to be pirates.”

“That is not what we are doing,” Varric corrected. “At least not for another ten years.”

Solas’ disapproving frown gave way to something far more melancholy. “Is this where you’ve been all night?” Something about that stirred discontent in the anxious corners of his mind. Suddenly he felt guilty for not seeking her out sooner. “…are you alright, _vhenan_?”

The word brought something familiar back, a spark of dying light beneath a muddy haze of wine and displeasure. “Yeah.” But she sounded unsure of that verdict. “…I should go to bed.”

“You should,” Varric agreed. “And so should I. And so should he. Everyone, just go to bed.”

Solas watched her rise shakily to her feet, legs wavering, and moved subtly nearer. “Do you need help?” he offered.

“No. I don’t need you. I have Varric.”

“No you don’t,” Varric said. “I am not climbing those stairs.”

“I have myself,” she corrected. “And I am _indomitable_.”

“Yes,” Solas agreed. “You are.”

He watched her sway off, and was surprised to find himself feeling…disappointment. She hadn’t even said goodnight.

“Welp,” Varric announced, “that’s my cue.” He pushed his chair back, pausing for a deep, steadying breath. “Night, Solas. And, ah…good luck with that. Whatever you did.”

“Before you go,” Solas said, “there is something I have been meaning to ask you.” His gaze subtly sharpened. “What is the ‘Council?’”

“Oh come on, Chuckles, don’t do this to me right now.”

“I could ask Cassandra.”

“Fine, Andraste’s ass… It’s just a…stupid thing Killer did. This little _group_ she set up. Leliana, Josephine, and Cullen, plus me and Cassandra. It’s supposed to be like- If she ever does something really fucked up, and all five of us unanimously _agree_ it’s fucked up, we…I don’t know, get to fire her, or something? Honestly it wasn’t worth me paying that close of attention to. It’ll never happen.”

“Could you define the parameters of ‘fucked up,’ perchance?”

“First: I have never once heard you say ‘fuck’ before; I love it, keep it up. Second: I don’t know, if she went and drop kicked a baby off a bridge, or something? Or made a _law_ to drop kick all babies off bridges? I told you; it’s bullshit. It’ll never happen. Even if one of us gets all hot and bothered over something, there’s no way everyone else will. It’ll never happen.”

“So why implement it at all?”

“What is _with_ you people? I’m not Lilith. I don’t know why she does anything. _Ask her_.”

“You claim no insight, then?”

He watched as Varric fought a bloody internal battle between his need for sleep and his need to give a snarky answer. The latter eventually won out. “Maybe she just did it to keep you all on your toes. Maybe she doesn’t want you to blindly follow her. Or shit, maybe she actually has _a realistic view_ of human imperfection. Or…elven imperfection, whatever. Whoever. The woman’s just smart, okay? The whole ‘council’ thing is stupid, but whatever she needs it to exist for isn’t. Call it accountability, or a failsafe, or _whatever_ , but Lilith having a plan a, b, c, d, and e has never failed us yet.”

“A failsafe.” That was…interesting. “…when did this happen?”

“You’ve really got to stop asking so many questions.”

“Was this recently?”

“No, no, it was way back when she first got the castle. I- look, I need to go to sleep. You probably need to go to sleep. Let’s all just stop being conscious and having conversations, alright?”

“Varric?”

“You’re killing me here, Solas.”

He took a long moment of silence before voicing his question. “Why you?”

“Why _me?_ ”

“Why does she talk to you?”

“Do you even hear yourself talk?” He gestured half-heartedly to the entirety of him. “You want to know why? Because I don’t do _this_ shit. Goodnight.”

Solas watched him stalk off, a little too wobblingly for comfort, and tried to fight the urge to follow. Interesting, indeed.

What was it Lilith was so afraid she’d become?

“Hey,” came the echo of Lilith’s voice, “Solas?”

It appeared she’d only made it as far as one of the dining tables. She collapsed awkwardly into the nearest chair, legs splayed, head dipping dangerously low with each heavy blink. “Could I request your assistance?”

“Yes,” he obliged. “Of course.”

He helped her to her feet with the offer of an outstretched hand, but had to catch her with his arm at her back when she stood too fast and started to tip. She leaned heavily against him, head drooping low. “I don’t think this is going to work.”

“Would you like me to carry you?”

She smiled, a sweet, sleepy smile, and Solas’ heart felt tight. “Yes, please. Thank you.” She tugged at his collar, still stumbling, still smiling. “My knight in shining armor,” she purred. “When are you going to let me carry _you_ to bed?”

“You’re too short.”

“When has that ever stopped me?”

“No.”

“I’m _solid!_ My center of gravity is lower!”

He lifted her with relative ease and carried her up her chamber steps—a feat much easier to accomplish sober. Unfortunately, a feat also made more difficult by Lilith’s roaming hands. “This is a fight,” she asserted, fingertips pulling at his collar in a graceless attempt to find skin. “We’re fighting. I’m mad at you.”

“I can only imagine what for.”

“I’m mad,” she repeated. Her nails found flesh and scraped. “You know how we should resolve this?”

“Ample sleep, and sober conversation?”

“Exactly,” she agreed. “And it starts with mind-blowing oral pleasure.”

“Tempting,” he flatly stated. “But no.”

She squirmed in his arms, lips too close to his throat for comfort. “I’m mad at you,” she maintained, but kissed his neck, still. “You should fix that.”

“Tomorrow.”

“Please,” she sighed. Her hands were so warm, touch so comforting. So… “ _Ma vhenan.”_

Solas did not answer, though. He laid her gently atop her bed, silent, and hoped she wouldn’t remember it tomorrow. Hoped—prayed—for many things. He undressed her carefully, employing a near surgical accuracy as he attempted to get her out of her clothes without actually touching her skin. Lilith offered absolutely no help, opting instead to try and trap him between her legs. He tugged her pants off and could only sigh when she tried to hook a leg over his hip.

“Stop. You need to sleep.”

“You know what I need more?”

“Liith, please.” He swore, if she said-

“Dick.”

“ _Lilith. Please._ ”

“Your Inquisitor commands you.” She jutted a commanding finger into the air, pointing wildly at nothing. “I’m the Herald of Andraste, and I require service. _Sexual_ service.”

“Yes, I’m sure.”

She snagged him by his dangling necklace; pulled him into a sweet, languid kiss, and for a terrible moment he forgot why he shouldn’t kiss her back. It took everything in him to pull away. He caught her hand before it could curl into the cord around his neck. “You are drunk,” he said.

“So get on my level.”

“Lilith.” Her hands wandered lower, tugging at the hem of his shirt, and Solas had to dodge grasping hands to take her by the shoulders and push her back to the bed. “ _No_.”

She grinned, eyes slipped shut, but stayed thankfully still. “Kiss me.”

“Perhaps tomorrow.”

“Kiss me _now._ ”

She reached for him again, blindly and with little accuracy. Solas took a measured step back. “You’re drunk.”

“So be drunk with me.”

“That is not how that works.”

She gave a trailing groan, but at least stopped reaching. Solas leaned down to press a quick, soft kiss to her forehead, and was content to savor even that small touch. “ _Ar lath ma._ Sleep.”

“Make me.”

“Is that a formal request?”

“No. I’m being cheeky. Kiss me.”

“ _Sleep_.”

He blew out the candle at her bedside, but lingered at the staircase. Sera’s words came filtering back.

_Lilith hears it, too._

“I- When I have spoken of your people in the past, and said…less than kind things, I never meant you.”

He heard her muffled laughter beneath her pillow. “ _No,_ of course, because I’m so _different_ and _special._ Not like all those other elves.” Her laugh came in a graceless snort. “Racist.”

“ _We are both elves.”_

“Elitist,” she corrected. “Classist? Prejudiced at _best._ ”

Solas scowled, but had no real argument to that. “It was never my intention to disparage you. If I have in some way, even indirectly…I apologize. I would change nothing about you.”

“I want a better nose.”

“I like your nose.” His smile broke. “There is nothing wrong with you.” He hoped, desperately, she believed that. He thought of riddling girls with gifts of thorns. Of ink-stained fingertips. “I never wanted to hurt you,” he confessed.

“I know.”

“Do you?”

“I know you,” she murmured into her pillow. “You can’t hide from me. I always know you. I’ve always…” Her words broke off and drifted away, lost. “I miss you.”

He wished she was sober. He wished he could touch her. “I miss you, too, _vhenan_. Sleep.”

“Come kiss me goodnight,” she pleaded. She rolled back over to extend a beckoning hand his way. “That’s an order, agent.”

“I already did,” he gently reminded.

“Come do it again.”

It’s possible he may have denied her, had she not followed it with a soft _“Please?”_ sounding far more mournful than it had any right to. Of course he had to oblige. He caught her hand as she went to snatch his collar and kissed her briefly on the forehead.

“Cheater,” she accused. A sleepy smile spread slowly into a grin. “Now fuck me.”

“ _Not-_ ” He had to dodge an aimless grasp. “-when you are drunk.”

“Aw, c’mon.”

“You can barely stand.”

“I don’t need to stand,” she argued. “Just roll me over and do me like this.”

“That is _wildly_ unethical. No.”

“ _You’re_ wildly unethical. I am gonna…” She flailed her hand uselessly, eyelids sinking shut. “I’m gonna fuck you into a twenty-seventh dimension.”

“I…what are the other twenty-six?”

She purred, cloyingly sweet, “Touch me.”

Solas wondered how many lesser men would vie for that invitation. “I will not,” he gently informed.

“Mmmgonna suck your brain out through your dick.”

“I would ask that you please refrain.” He pulled her blankets up to her shoulders, against much growing protest. “Goodnight, Lilith.”

“Wait,” she begged. “Wait, Solas. Wait.”

“Yes?”

She reached out as if to hold his hand, smile sleepy and sweet. “Let me touch your butt.”

“Goodnight, Lilith.”

“Just once.”

“ _Goodnight_.”

“Solas, this is important. The fate of Thedas hangs in the balance. The world as we know it depends on your choice in this very moment. Just let me…” She flexed her fingers. “Just let me grab it.”

“You’re drunk.”

“I’ve asked that sober, too.”

And yes, to be fair, she did.

“Perhaps tomorrow,” he assured.

“I know you’re just saying that to get me to stop and go to sleep, but I want you to know that I consider that a promise and I _will_ remember it tomorrow.” She stretched, tossed her head back with a dreamy smile, and purred, “Tell me you love me.”

Solas felt like saying many things in that moment.

_Do you not know that already?_

_Was that ever a question?_

_How could I ever stop?_

“I love you,” he said.

“Tell me I’m the best you’ve ever had.”

“The best,” he complied. The best, the worst, the last love he would ever have. “You are everything.”

She sighed through a fading laugh. “Touch me.”

“Tomorrow.”

“You promise?”

The word “promise” felt meaningless, though. Solas had broken so many promises. “Tomorrow,” he repeated. He hoped she wouldn’t remember. “Goodnight.” A dark and terrible part of him wanted to join her. Wanted to lay beside her and sleep, peacefully, finally. A part of him wanted only to feel her, warm, beside him. But tonight was not the night for that.

She reached for him, and he caught her hand in his. Held. “You’re drunk,” he sadly reported. “I’m sorry.”

“That’s ok.” Her smile broke into a yawn, eyes slipped contentedly shut. “Just stay with me. Here.”

“I’m afraid I cannot do that.”

“I love you.” She breathed the confession in such a sweet and happy sigh. She’d already started to drift.

“ _Ar lath ma_ ,” he promised. “I love you, too.”

“Wait.” She awoke enough to push herself up on her elbows. “One more kiss?”

“Go to sleep.”

“No thanks.”

He gave a heavy sigh, but couldn’t help but relent.

He kissed her. A quick, chaste kiss. It felt…heavenly.

“Thanks,” she breathed. “Dad.”

“ _Oh_ for- Of _all_ the- ! _Why?”_ He pushed her away with a glare. “ _Why?_ ”

“Sorry.” She snorted trying to hold back a mad cackle, apparently quite pleased with herself. “ _Daddy_.”

“ _Ugh.”_ He couldn’t quell a shudder. “That is not _funny!_ ”

“I’m sorry,” she said, “have I been bad, _hahren?_ Do I need to be punished?”

“ _Stop that_.” There was not enough patience in the world. He stormed off in a huff, goodnights forgotten. “That is… _ugh._ I am _leaving_.”

“Aw, c’mon, come back! Teach me the error of my ways!”

“That is _revolting_.”

“Come on,” she pleaded. “Come fuck me, daddy.”

“You are _awful!_ I…! Where do you…?! _Awful!_ ”

He descended the stairwell with a fresh wave of disgust and a heated murmur of, “ _Revolting!_ ” while Lilith’s mad laughter rang loudly in the distance. At least, he supposed, that was one less thing to worry about. He slammed her door shut harder than he intended. “Absolutely _repugnant_.” When he stormed past Sera and Blackwall out in the hall he whipped back long enough to spit out, “You are all terrible people, and a terrible influence.”

The two exchanged quizzical glances as Solas stalked off. “What was that?” Blackwall asked.

“I bet she called him daddy.”

“Maker, I hope not. I’ll owe her so much coin.”

Faraway down the hall, he heard the lingering echo of a shout: “ _Revolting!_ ”

He sighed. “I owe her so much coin.”

“ _Repugnant,_ ” Solas furiously repeated. “Just… _ugh._ ”

He nearly barreled into Dorian when he swung around the corner just as the mage was cautiously exiting the rotunda. Solas opened his mouth to apologize before noticing the elf hovering behind him, a dark-eyed young man in June’s vallaslin—and then he noticed the flushed sheen on Dorian’s face.

Oh, Solas did _not_ have the patience for this tonight. “Really.” It was a statement, not a question. “ _Really._ ”

“Please don’t tell Lilith,” Dorian pleaded. “And, ah… _ahem_. Sorry about your chair.”

“My…?” Solas’ eyes went wide. “ _What?”_

He begged, again, “Please don’t tell Lilith.”

“Get out! Get out, both of you!” _Fenedhis,_ he was two seconds away from setting this _entire castle ablaze_. “ _Get out of my rotunda!_ ”

“Right, yes, that makes sense. Erm. Goodnight, then.”

“Say hi to Lilith for me,” the elf chimed in.

“ _Get out!”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> lilith: daddy ;)  
> solas: http://i.imgur.com/6NE37iu.jpg


	17. Chapter 17

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **the good news:** I'm already a solid 15 pages into the next chapter, so y'all don't have to wait long to continue this trainwreck
> 
> **the bad news:** boy oh BOY is it a trainwreck ᕕ( ͡°( ͡° ͜ʖ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)ʖ ͡°) ͡°)ᕗ
> 
> **and once more, with feeling:** I absolutely fuckin cherish every single comment y'all leave me, and you can bet your ass I re-read them constantly. You guys mean the world to me; thank you for being so kind. ❤ My day gets brighter every time I see a notification. Thank you, truly.

Lilith awoke alone.

Or, not completely alone—Fen lay curled up and purring on her pillow, sleeping comfortably atop her hair. She scratched behind his ear as she tried to gently tug herself free. The action earned a low, rumbling growl and a vicious swipe that left beads of red welling across her cheek.

“ _Son_ of a-” She winced through a forced, pained smile. “Precious boy,” she cooed. “I love you, too.”

She had no idea where Solas was.

Or.

No, she knew where he was.

The door to her chambers slammed open, followed by the echo of furious footfalls bounding up the steps. Lilith was in the middle of dressing when Cullen marched in with a too-stern face and an irate shout of, “Inquisitor!”

Lilith sighed. “What can I do for you, Commander?”

Cullen, red-faced and flustered, pointed furiously behind him. “Varric has been telling people that my mother is Tranquil!”

“…and?”

“And…! He can’t! My mother is a fine, upstanding woman, and to have her name slandered-!”

“I’m gonna stop you right there,” she interrupted. She folded her hands before her, eyes slipping shut, and took a deep breath. If she were religious, she may have uttered a prayer. “Is this really something you want to have said?”

“I…!” Confidence dwindling, he nervously cleared his throat. “I only mean to say…”

“Are Tranquil incapable of being fine, upstanding people?”

“What? No, no of course not, obviously I didn’t mean… Well that isn’t the _point_ though-”

“Cullen.” She took him by the shoulders, grip firm, eyes stern. “Is this really something I need to expend energy on right now?”

“No,” he broke, defeated. “It is not.”

“Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m kind of in the middle of something.”

Cullen looked down, and for the first time noticed that the Herald wore no pants. His gaze snapped up fast enough to give him whiplash. “Right. Yes. Of course. Sorry. Er…so sorry.”

While he sheepishly fled back downstairs, looking somehow redder than when he’d stormed up, Lilith cast a weary look at Fen, still napping on her bed. “You’d never do this to me,” she assured. “Would you, baby?”

She leaned down to kiss the top of his head, and he promptly reared back and sunk his teeth into her nose.

Eyes welling with tears, she sucked in a pained hiss. “Precious baby,” she forced. “I love you, too.”

Fen hissed, and reared back with claws ready.

 

* * *

 

Dorian did not wake up alone.

Uh.

_Oops._

He stared at the sleeping elf presently sharing his bed and felt the curious compulsion to suddenly set himself on fire. “I’ve made a terrible mistake,” he uttered aloud. “A terrible, terrible mistake.”

The elf—Riel, his name was, yes?—stirred beside him. He rolled to stretch his arms upward with a bleary yawn. “ _Aneth ara,_ sexy.”

Dorian decided against a standard “good morning” and instead immediately blurted, “Please don’t tell Lilith.”

“Not exactly the greeting I was hoping for, but okay.”

Dorian hid his face in his hands, eyes screwed shut. “I can’t believe I did this.”

“If anyone ever writes a torrid romance novel about us, that’ll be the title. No, the subtitle. I need a moment for the title.”

“I’m an idiot,” he groaned despondently into his hands.

“There we are, that’s the title!”

Dorian wanted to die. “Why do I do this? Am I just bored? Is this some subconscious cry for attention? Is this divine punishment for some greater moral failing?”

“Or I’m just irresistible,” Riel said, and winked.

Now Dorian wanted both of them to die. He begged, again, “Please don’t tell Lilith.”

“Not to be that person,” he pointed out, “but this doesn’t seem like the worst thing that’s happened this week.”

“A fair point,” he granted. “But let’s not mention it anyway.”

Normally when Dorian sought guidance in times of tribulation such as this he went to Lilith. With that clearly not an option, he was forced to flee to his second choice in confidante.

The Iron Bull laughed in his face.

Long, loud, _irritatingly_ amused laughter. Dorian waited with rapidly fleeting patience for him to hurry up and finish, all the while scanning the nearby crowd of tavern patrons for familiar faces. When he finally wheezed out his last trailing bout of laughter, the great idiot clapped a hand over Dorian’s shoulder, wiped a mirthful tear from his eye, and said only, “ _Nice_.”

“Not _nice,_ ” Dorian hissed back, voice dropped low, “bad! Very, very bad!”

“Hey, all she asked you to do was not fight anyone,” he defended. “She didn’t say anything about fucking ‘em.” He burst into laughter again, doubling over with his hands on his knees. Dorian considered, for the second time, setting himself on fire.

He covered his face with his hands, at a loss. “I’ve betrayed her. I’m a terrible friend. Just awful. She’ll never forgive me.”

“Aw, come on, it’s not that big a deal. Look at some of the crap everyone else has pulled—honestly, fucking her cousin’s really not the worst.”

“He’s not her cousin, you idiot—how many more times do I have to tell you, they’re not all _related_.”

“You fucked her…basket-weaver, or halla-dealer or something.”

“Right, well, I feel this conversation is bordering dangerously on offensive, so why don’t we call it a day? Wonderful chatting with you, Bull. Always a pleasure.”

Dorian stormed off, headed for the castle, while Bull lost himself to another laughing fit.

“Aw, come on,” he called after him, “where are you going?”

“To find Lilith,” Dorian stated. “I have to tell her, don’t I?”

Bull finally found the power within himself to stop laughing. “Whoa, whoa, slow your roll there—let’s stop and think about this.”

“She should hear it from me.”

“Uh, yeah, or she could just, y’know, not hear about it at all?”

Iron Bull followed him all the way to the main hall, hovering just behind him. “Look, I’m not saying you’ve got to lie to her, but you could definitely _not bring it up_. She had a rough night last night. Maybe _don’t_ drop any potentially upsetting news on her this morning.”

“She should know!”

“Yeah, she really shouldn’t.”

On the other side of the hall, the door to Lilith’s chambers burst open and was promptly slammed shut again with a swift kick and the furious exclamation, “ _Fuck you too,_ Fen’Harel!”

Dorian fell dead silent.

“Right,” Bull whispered. “Sounds like she’s in a real good mood to hear this. Here, want me to get her attention for you?”

Dorian sunk his fingers like claws into the meat of Bull’s arm before he could raise it to wave. He spotted Solas out of the corner of his eye, exiting the rotunda with his face buried in a book. “Let’s let her talk to Solas first, shall we? He may be a…better person to start her day with.”

“He definitely isn’t, but alright.”

“No,” he assured, “I spoke with him yesterday—it actually went…very well, I think.”

“…right,” Bull said, clearly unconvinced. “And I’m telling you: it definitely didn’t.”

 

* * *

 

Lilith’s voice echoed furious through the hall, a damning curse:

“ _Fuck you too,_ Fen’Harel!”

Solas jumped.

He was still in the process of untangling his nerves when she approached with a soft smile.

“Hey,” she greeted. “You busy?”

Solas did not answer. It felt like the only sensible way not to lie.

“So, I promised Deshanna I’d spend the morning with her, and later this afternoon I’m supposed to meet with a dignitary from Lydes, but…I’d really like to talk. Whenever you can. You want to get together later? And if we end up with some spare time, maybe we can revisit that thing you didn’t want to try and ended up really liking.”

Worryingly, Solas could think only, _“Which one?”_

“The best blowjob of your life,” she clarified, “plus a little extra.”

Dorian, huddled together with the Iron Bull in some hushed conversation behind her, glanced back with a curiously raised eyebrow. Solas poured all remaining energy into stifling a withering glare. “No.” He forced his voice softer. “…thank you.”

Lilith looked…not _upset,_ but…subdued. Wilted. “Okay. Sure. I mean, there’s plenty of other ways we can occupy our time.” She gave a teasing bump to his shoulder. “I can find a door with an actual lock this time.”

“ _No._ ”

The frosted-over sheen melted into something sadder. Something hurt. “…okay. That’s…that’s fine, too.” She poured all her rapidly dwindling energy into tamping down disappointment. It wasn’t as successful as she hoped. “You want to meet up anyway? Swap theories on chaos? I promise I’ll be a good influence this time.”

Solas didn’t move, yet somehow managed to sink a thousand miles back. He hoped she didn’t notice.

She did.

“I’ll just see you later,” she conceded.

“Yes,” he lied. “Later.”

She went to leave but dropped back, tethered by some persistent worry. “…Solas?”

“Yes?”

A pause, terrible and heavy. She ducked nearer with her voice dropped low. “Did I do something?”

No. Yes. Not…not like that.

“No,” he said. “You are perfect. Please—if nothing else, believe that I mean that. You are beautiful, and wonderful, and I could never stop loving you.”

But her crossed arms hugged a touch too tight; those ever-smiling lips weighted down in a terrible frown. “So…what changed then?”

_Mad girl. Troubled girl. Sneaky little-_

“Nothing,” he said. “You have done nothing.”

“You won’t even kiss me.”

Please, not this conversation. Not now. He’d never wanted to hurt her; never wanted to _use-_

“You don’t have to start again,” she went on. “I just wanted to know why.” She shifted uncomfortably, and the motion seemed so foreign. Lilith was never supposed to look uncomfortable. “I never lied about things that mattered. I need you to trust that. Just…know that, alright?”

He knew. He wished he could promise the same of himself. “It is not that. Please. Leave it.”

“Just tell me what happened,” she insisted. “Do you not want to…? The other night you were fine, I don’t understand. We were fine, and had _really great sex,_ and then the next morning it was… _this_.”

“Your voice,” he warned, tone dropped to a whisper.

“Or what, someone might overhear our grand secret? Maker have mercy on our souls; the Inquisitor and her elven companion, engaging in _intercourse!_ Most scandalous! Whatever shall we tell the children?”

“ _Quiet,_ ” he urged. It was the wrong thing to say.

Lilith’s voice finally lowered, words hushed. It was the worst sound Solas had ever heard. “Do you…do you not want anyone to know you’re with me? That we’re…?” The smile was dead. “Do you not want them to know you’re _sleeping_ with me?”

_Sneaky little-_

“ _No,_ no, it is not that—of course I would never…”

“Right,” she said, tone snipped sharp. “Best to just drop it. Wouldn’t want anyone to know you’ve fallen so low as to fuck the dread elven Inquisitor.”

Solas scowled at a whispering Orlesian couple loitering nearby. “This,” he sternly whispered, “is neither the time nor place for this conversation.”

“Sorry, am I being too loud? Is this _embarrassing_ you? Gods forbid anyone know our _awful secret_.”

Solas shouldn’t have. He really shouldn’t have. “Is it truly a secret? I thought you made your wishes very clear to everyone last night.”

“Don’t use drunk-me against me! _Rude!_ ” She groaned, frustrated and horrified, and finally, blessedly lowered her voice. “Look, I’m sorry I called you daddy and asked you to fuck me, but you have to admit it was just a _little_ funny.”

A passing elf stopped and stared, and the mortified way Solas’ eyes darted downward pushed her over the edge.

Lilith glared. “On second thought, no. I’m not sorry. It was worth it and I’d do it again. I’m not apologizing to you. _Fuck me, daddy._ And then go fuck off.”

It was…not exactly how Solas envisioned that conversation going. He watched forlornly as she whisked off, watched the eerily silent crowd around them casually disperse, and wondered if it was possible to set oneself on fire simply by wishing it hard enough.

Still idling nearby, Dorian not-so-discreetly coughed. “Since clearly no one else will do it, I’ll ask: what was ‘that one thing’?”

Bull gave a loose shrug. “Probably butt stuff.” He cupped his hands around his mouth to needlessly shout, “Hey, Solas! Was it butt stuff? It’s butt stuff, right?”

Bull didn’t speak any Elven, but he was pretty sure Solas snapped back with whatever the elfy version of _“fuck you”_ was. “Yeah, I thought so.” He leaned in to Dorian, and made a dramatic show of rolling his eye. “It’s _always_ butt stuff.”

Dorian purposefully cleared his throat. “Are you alright, Solas? You look…upset.”

No sooner did he ask than Bull pointed out, “You look like you need to get fucked.”

“ _I am fine,”_ he snapped.

“I’m sure you are,” Dorian unconvincingly agreed. “Different topic entirely: how’s Lilith been?”

Bull thought it pertinent to add, unnecessarily, “She need to get fucked, too?”

“ _She is fine.”_

Dorian craned his neck to catch a last glimpse of Lilith as she stormed away out the front doors. “Not to pry, but it didn’t sound like that conversation went terribly well.”

“ _It was fine_ ,” he spit out. “Good _bye_.” He rushed off, muttering furious Elven under his breath, and Bull smacked Dorian triumphantly on the arm.

“What’d I tell you?” he said. “It _definitely_ didn’t go well.”

 

* * *

 

 Horrible as Lilith’s morning started, at least she got to spend the rest of it with Deshanna. She took her through the mage tower, one of her proudest additions to her fortress, and Deshanna couldn’t stop beaming.

“You know,” her Keeper said, “for some, this could be the first time they’ve been given such an opportunity. To safely practice magic without being leashed to the Chantry.”

Lilith shrugged it off. “It’s a start, anyway.”

Deshanna stopped her with her hands laid on her shoulders. “You’ve done wonderfully, _ma vher’assan_. You’ve made your people proud.” She gave her shoulders a gentle squeeze. “You’ve made _me_ proud.”

“…thank you. I’m trying.”

“We know. And we couldn’t appreciate it more.”

“Well. Not everyone.”

The brightness of Deshanna’s smile dimmed. “Never you mind them. They’re only jealous. You’ve accomplished so much—for mages, for elves, for _people_ —there will always be those made cruel with envy. They matter not.” She took her face in both hands; smiled. “I could never be prouder of you, Lilith.”

Lilith wished she could believe that.

 

Cole found her late in the afternoon, after a particularly strained meeting with a jumpy Orlesian dignitary. Apparently he wasn’t used to being around elves who didn’t serve him—he clutched at the purse on his belt at every sighting of pointed ears as if afraid they’d up and rob him. Guiltily, Lilith kind of wished they would. Normally she was good at ignoring human prejudices, but the past week and a half had not been normal, and Lilith’s patience had long ago disappeared. An awful tension headache left her skull pounding. She rubbed futilely at her temples as if enough pressure could ease the tight band of pain around her head. It didn’t.

She could not have been more grateful when Cole ambushed her in the stairwell with the offer of a steaming cup of tea in his hands.

“It’s cinnamon,” he told her, and was awash with relief when she took a savored sip. “I put extra honey it in. You like honey.”

“It’s perfect,” she said. “Thank you. You’re an absolute saint.”

“No, I’m Cole.”

“That you are,” she agreed. “And I adore you for it.”

She moved to pass him, but he blocked her path, mouth drawn in a fretful frown. “You know,” he stated. He did not elaborate on what. He did not have to. His eyes were haunting, pleading. “You should say something.”

Lilith didn’t speak. Only took his face in her hands, eyes slipping shut, and gently pulled him down to rest her forehead against his. She breathed—slowly in, out—and released him.

“…yes,” he said. “I understand.”

He watched Lilith leave, feeling even more mournful than before, and wished he’d still been a spirit—or demon, or ghost, or whatever he’d been. He wished he could have eased her pain in a way he knew how. She shouldn’t have to hurt. He wished he could help.

Solas was waiting at the bottom of the stairs when he descended with his head hung low. He’d been waiting out of sight, lingering just behind the corner. Listening.

“Cole?” He motioned him closer, stare critical. “…what were you and the Inquisitor talking about?”

“It doesn’t matter,” Cole said. “That isn’t the point.”

His brow furrowed, displeased. “And what is the point?”

“Trust,” he said simply. The sureness of his voice was a notable shift. Solas wasn’t sure if he was comforted by it.

For a long time Solas said nothing. He stared up at the empty stairwell, memories of regrettable words flashing like lightning at the forefront of his mind. So many regrets. So many failures. So much he wished he could change.

He thought of Lilith—his lost goddess—and thought madly of imagined futures. Some alternate life where their paths had crossed earlier; where she could have been all that she had the potential to be. She could have shaken the world, but different, so different. And Skyhold would boast statues of _her_. Portraits would be painted of _her_. Gatherings of faithful would invoke _her_ name for protection, for strength, for justice, and she would have answered.

Cole broke his train of thought. “She wouldn’t want that. That’s not what she’s here for.”

Yes. He was already aware. “Forgive me,” he said, and swept his thoughts clean in a flash. Those were dangerous musings. Still, though… “She could have been so much more.”

“She’s already more,” Cole corrected. “You just can’t hear it yet.”

Solas hadn’t meant it like that. He…wasn’t entirely sure what he meant anymore.

For a long time he said nothing. Finally, mournfully, the confession, “This is not who I wanted to be.”

“I don’t think anyone is,” Cole comforted, half pondering aloud. “I…think that’s part of it.”

“Part of what?”

“Being people,” he said. His next words shifted to a tone more excited. “But that’s alright, because people change. And that’s…good, I think.” His head dipped, disappearing beneath the rim of his hat. “Lilith explains it better.”

“Do you and Lilith talk often?”

“Yes,” he said. “Friends talk to each other.”

“Yes,” he slowly came to agree. “Yes, I suppose they do.”

It was never supposed to happen this way. This had never been what Solas had wanted; for him, for the world, certainly not for her. His intention had never been to-

Well. Solas supposed it did not matter what his intentions had been.

Intention, he found, rarely mattered.

Cole broke his train of thought. “You should tell her. You would feel better if you did. It wouldn’t be how you think.”

And for a split second he actually considered that. Allowed himself to be lost in the fantasy of confessing his crimes, his failures, momentarily awash in the false comfort of imagined understanding.

Maybe she would understand. Maybe she would forgive. _Absolve._

Maybe she would have a better way.

“She already does,” Cole said, and it held the cadence of a plea. “You don’t understand because you can’t _hear_. She won’t let anyone hear.”

“I will speak to her,” Solas promised. “…but not now.” Not after this morning. Not until he’d figured out the right things to say. The right words to fix his mistake.

“You won’t,” Cole said. Solas wasn’t sure which part he was referring to. His next words were miserable, heartbroken. “That’s the problem.”

 

* * *

 

Solas did not look for Lilith, though he knew he should have. He feared any further conversation would only make things worse, only sink them further into bitter discontent, and despite everything, he swore that was not what he wanted for her. At least he hoped it wasn’t.

Lately, he was beginning to have a hard time telling what it was he hoped for.

He’d retreated to the rotunda to sit miserably at his desk, accomplishing nothing and agonizing over everything, Cole’s words still fresh in his mind. For a moment he entertained the idea of disappearing into the Fade, but dashed that thought as quickly as it appeared. He was not in a stable enough state to enter a place shaped by emotion. And…

_Banal nadas, Fen’Harel._

…no. The Fade was not the place for him right now.

A small voice shook him from his misery, a sudden greeting: “Hullo.”

Solas looked up, and then down. A child stood before him—a Dalish girl no older than six, a tiny round-eyed thing yet to grow into her ears. She stared up at him, wide-eyed and unafraid, and bluntly asked, “Is your cat named Fen’Harel?”

Solas was unsure whether he was meant to lie to her or not. In the end he simply didn’t have the energy. “It is not my cat,” he answered. “But yes.”

“Aren’t you scared you’ll make him mad?”

“Who?”

“Fen’Harel,” she said. “I don’t think he’d want to be a cat.”

“You are right. He would not.”

She stood on tiptoes to peer over his desk, curious. “Are you Dalish?”

“No.”

“Are you from the city?”

“No.”

“Oh.” She looked down, carefully pondering that information. “Ok. Do you have any other cats?”

“It is not my cat,” he reminded. “But I believe there are others, yes.” The enduring curiosity on her face was his downfall. His words softened, feeling guilty. “Are you enjoying your stay here, da’len?”

“Yes,” she brightly reported. “There’s horses, and I saw a dungeon. Have you ever been there?”

“I have seen it.”

“Do you really put bad guys in there?”

“Sometimes.”

Her grin lit up her face. “Neat! Are you a mage?”

“I am.”

“Me too,” she said, ecstatic. “Watch, my Keeper taught me this!” She cupped her palms, brows furrowed deep in concentration, and with a surprised yelp conjured a quick burst of frost in her hands. “I’m not good at it,” she admitted, “but Deshanna says I’ll get it soon.”

“I’m sure you will.” Solas had spent so much time among the mages of the Inquisition—rebels, runaways, former Circle mages, former slaves. To see magic wielded without fear, without shame, was…something he missed terribly. “What is your name?”

“Lyna,” she said. “Do you want to see me do it again?”

“I would like that very much.”

She grinned, smile full of gaps, and with all her focus managed to conjure the briefest flash of a spark. “It was supposed to be bigger,” she pouted. “I’m not good at it yet.”

“Would you like me to help you?”

“Ok,” she agreed. “But I’m not good at it yet.”

She tried and retried again, determination bolstered by his gentle direction. She grew more discouraged with each failed attempt, until at one point in their trials her face crumpled, lips quivering in a pout. “I’m not good at it,” she bemoaned, and Solas saw a sheen of tears building at her bottom lashes.

“You are trying,” he assured. “We only become better at things with practice—you are already halfway there.”

She sniffled. “I messed it up.”

“You can only succeed after failing first. With each try you bring yourself closer to success. Here.” He held his hands beneath hers, keeping her steady. “Try again.” With a nudge of magical help, she summoned a flame. “Excellent,” he praised. “Look—you are already better than you were.”

She beamed, and Solas’ heart broke.

“Do _you_ have to practice?” she asked.

“I do. Learning is an ongoing experience—you never stop.” His lips quirked in a dry smile. “I once set my coattails on fire by accident.”

“Aren’t you good at magic?”

“I am very good at magic,” he said. “But no one is perfect.”

Cullen strolled through on his way to the war room, and looked aghast when out of the corner of his eye he caught her summon a puff of smoke in her palm. “Are you certain you should be doing that inside the castle?” he asked, uneasy.

“I am supervising,” Solas assured. “Besides. She learns quickly.”

“Deshanna says I’ll get it soon,” she piped in, and Solas found himself nodding in earnest agreement.

“Very soon. It seems you are a natural.”

She grinned so big it made her flame flare brighter.

Cullen watched, expression knit in unease. “If you insist… Just take care. It’s dangerous to-”

“ _I am supervising_ ,” he repeated, perhaps sharper than he should have. “There is no danger.” He took care to frame those last words as a stern statement of fact. The girl did not yet know that Cullen was afraid of her, and Solas wanted to keep it that way. For as long as possible, brief a time as that may be, he did not want her to know she was hated simply because a cruel, broken world had deemed her lesser.

Cullen finally left, Solas’ glare on his back all the while. His stare only broke when Lyna tugged excitedly on his sleeve.

“What magic can you do? Can I see?”

He conjured a cold burst of air and channeled it in a current between his fingers, creating a sustained vortex of frost. A tiny cyclone. The girl could not have looked more delighted.

“Can you teach me how to do it with fire?” she asked, and Solas merely laughed.

“Let us start with ice first.”

He was guiding her through the first steps of the spell—quite successfully, might he add—when she asked abruptly, “Are you sad you don’t have vallaslin?”

Solas was too taken aback to formulate a proper reply.

“Lilith could give you some if you wanted,” she went on, oblivious.

“I… Is that something she offers people?”

“I don’t think she’s supposed to,” she remarked offhand. The fizzling spark she’d been working on conjuring finally flashed into a whorl of frost, and the path of that conversation was instantly forgotten with a wide-eyed shout of surprise. “Look! Look, I did it!”

“So you did,” he said, but the words were automatic, thoughts faraway. “Very good.”

…he would have to revisit that particular topic later.

The echo of a woman’s voice interrupted, an inquisitive call of, “Lyna?” An elven woman wandered in, face troubled, and smiled when she caught sight of her. “There you are! What did your father tell you about running off by yourself?” She looked to Solas and frowned. “Apologies, she knows better than to bother our hosts. _Don’t_ you, Lyna?”

“She was no bother,” he was quick to correct. “She’s very gifted. Your Keeper is clearly an excellent teacher.”

The woman laughed, a sound full with pride. “Best there is.”

“…forgive my ignorance, but does your clan not risk opposition from humans with so many mages among your ranks?”

“We’ve always been good at keeping our business our own,” she said. “And Deshanna has always made sure our mages are skilled enough to avoid detection. But I suppose it doesn’t matter much now—not a shem left who’d dare criticize us. Too many owe us their lives, now.”

“I imagine your relation to the Inquisitor has not hurt, either.”

“Who’d have ever imagined,” she said with a shake of her head. “First time for everything, I suppose.”

Lyna leapt to her feet. “Look!” she shouted, running up to her mother with an ecstatic grin. “Look what I can do!” She followed her mother out the door, tongue stuck out in concentration as she conjured a tiny burst of swirling ice in her palms. Solas heard the echo of her voice fading, excitedly showing off her newest spell; heard her mother’s delighted gasp and words of praise. “That’s lovely, Lyna; such a quick learner! Come, Deshanna would love if you showed her.”

He was unsure how long Lilith had been watching them. Her voice echoed down from the library above. “Brilliant.” She applauded. “You should start a school.”

“She is gifted,” he said. He wondered how skilled she could be with further instruction. He wondered, shamefully, how skilled a child of his own could be. With his magical affinity, and Lilith’s sheer force of determination-

An awful pang split his heart like lightning. He would not think of that.

The soft fondness of Lilith’s smile only made the ache sharper. She leaned down over the railing, smile bright. “I didn’t know you liked kids,” she said.

“I do not. Or…” No, that was wrong. “I do not dislike them. They simply are.”

“Yeah, I kind of like ‘em too. They have two sets of teeth! Two! How could you _not_ love that?”

He hummed approval, but his thoughts were already elsewhere. He let himself ease back into that guilty fantasy. That impossible future. A family.

“You know, if we’re picking favorites,” she said, “I watched Neria’s kid straight up headbutt a wall yesterday, and I think that is exactly the kind of spirit we need to carry on the family legacy.”

He laughed, and it took even him by surprise.  “I have no plans to procreate. But…if I had, if things were different…”

“Two kids and a cat,” she supplied. “That’d be my cap.”

He laughed. It felt too much like a sob. “That is fair.”

“…I’m sorry about this morning.”

“I am, too.”

“Do you think we can go talk somewhere?”

Solas closed his eyes and took a breath. “We will only fight if we do,” he said. “Please. I do not wish to fight with you today.”

When he looked up Lilith was already gone.

 

* * *

 

The day drug on in a tense and stagnant haze. Lilith was trying to find a moment’s peace in the shadowy alcoves of the garden when Lysette approached with nervously folded hands.

“Inquisitor?” Then lower, a more careful murmur: “Lilith?”

“Lysette,” she brightly greeted. “What can I do for you, babe?”

The Inquisitor’s gratuitous use of pet names had once thrown her off, but they didn’t now. Hadn’t for a long time. “I thought you should know,” she said. “A…friend of mine, an archivist in the library, said your- the elven researcher, Solas, was speaking to a woman from your clan. He had questions for her. Wanted to know if…you were something ‘other than elf.’”

“…oh.” That was…hm. “How’d he seem?”

“He looked…displeased with the conversation. He’s also been asking about other things. I can’t verify that, though. I did not hear him.”

“What kind of things?”

“He wanted to know if… Well. He’s just been asking a lot about things people say you’ve done.”

“Oh.” She didn’t like the nervous bunch of Lysette’s shoulders. “Bad things, I take it.”

“I have no opinion on the nature of them. It could be irrelevant, but…with all the rumors going around, I felt it would be better if you knew. Just…in case.”

Well that was…interesting. “Thank you, Lysette. I appreciate it. Really. Does anyone else know about this?”

“Of course not. I would not speak to anyone else.” Her gaze shifted, lips pursing in discontent. “I want you to know, Inquisitor, that I have faith in the Inquisition,” she said. “It has done good things. It is a good cause. But the Inquisition is an institution nevertheless, and I have seen many institutions fall. I witnessed firsthand the fall of the Templars, and none believed in their purpose more than I.” She looked so sad. Heartbroken. “I have faith in our cause,” she vowed, “but I have far more faith in you. The Inquisition did not save my life. You did that.”

“I kind of had to, though, right?” She eased the nervous tension of her shoulders with a gentle squeeze to her arm. “You’re one of the good ones, Lysette. Would have been a disservice to the world to lose you.”

“Thank you, Inquisitor. Lilith.” Her eyes flicked downward. “I was told he’s been stealing documents from the Spymaster. Your- Solas. _Private_ documents. I am…unsure how you wish to proceed, but it should be brought to your attention.”

Lilith already knew that, though. Enchanter Ellendra had pulled her aside to tell her ages ago.

“Thank you,” she said. “I’ll handle it. You’re a good friend, Lysette. I appreciate you looking out for me.”

Lysette finally smiled, although the motion was weak. “You will always have my loyalty, Inquisitor. If nothing else, I can offer that.”

Loyalty, though, mattered far more than she could have known.

 

Lilith spotted Solas again later that evening. For a moment she almost didn’t. She almost swept past without a glance, eyes set ahead, because whatever new brooding nonsense he’d gone and wrapped himself up in now was frankly not something she wanted to deal with, but…

Damn it. _Damn it_. She stopped anyway. Reached for his hand. And watched as he slipped it deftly out of her grasp.

“I’m sorry,” he offered.

Sorry.

Right.

A sneering whisper behind her stung like needles in her back.

_“Guess he got all he could out of that, then.”_

She did not seek Solas out anymore. She left for the war room, and did not return.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *to the tune of Shots* angst angst angst angst angst angst  
> angst angst angst angst angst  
> angst angst angst angst angst  
> ERRYBOOOODY


	18. Chapter 18

Solas never did speak to Lilith.

On some level, though, he’d always known he wouldn’t. Because he was weak, and a coward, and afraid—afraid of being unable to find a proper apology without saying too much, afraid of only further ruining things, of sinking her into a sharper misery which she in no way deserved.

None of those were excuses, but he thought them, still. An empty mantra of consolation.

He didn’t mean to, he didn’t mean to, he didn’t mean to…

Did that truly count for nothing?

The setting sun cast the tower in shadows, the library above him silent but for the fluttering sound of settling ravens. If he peaked out the door to the ramparts, he could make out the flickering blaze of firelight down in the yard, heard the raucous echo of a cheering crowd—some manner of gathering, the winding down of a grand event. By the glow of torchlight he could see a lineup of targets, and archers standing ready side by side. A contest, it seemed.

He hoped it ended on a better note than his day had.

A break in the silence startled him. “Solas?” someone asked. Her voice rang in the empty air, bouncing off the darkened walls like the clang of a great bell.

He spun back with a start, hurriedly sealing the door behind him, but did not recognize the woman presently standing in his doorway. An elven woman with a mass of curly hair piled high to one side, right eye hidden beneath a rose-shaped eyepatch. Or…wait.

“It is Solas, isn’t it?” the girl prodded. Her voice was oddly melodic, accent heavy, but her words cut short and precise. She let herself into the rotunda without awaiting an invitation, eye set stern on her goal. “You’re the Fade expert. Apostate, whatnot.”

“Can I help you?”

“Marin,” she flatly introduced, and reached to shake his hand with a grip far stronger than anticipated. “You and I have a lot to talk about. Sit or stand?”

An oddly familiar face, marred by a scar. “I… Do you have a brother?”

“I do,” she said. “He’s an idiot. So, sitting then, is it?”

“Oh. Yes, of course, ah… Please, take a seat.” He gestured absently to an open chair, but she didn’t move.

He sighed. “If I have done something to in any way offend you, I sincerely-”

“What? No. Why would you assume that’s what I wanted to talk about?”

He felt an awful headache coming on. “Very well. What can I do for you?”

“Well you can stop doing _that_. And get another chair—I can’t be the only one sitting, that’s weird.” She took a seat only when Solas begrudgingly drug another chair across the room. “You’re not from the Circle, right?”

“No. I am not.”

“Well then, can’t blame it on that.”

Solas pinched the bridge of his nose between his fingers with a sigh. This would be, it seemed, another very long night. “What was it you wished to discuss, again?”

“Don’t say ‘again,’ I haven’t told you yet. I want to talk about Lilith.”

“Of course.” Of _course_. He stiffly took a seat. “Go on, then.” Best to get it over with.

“You’re involved with her.” It was a statement, not a question. “Why?”

 _This_ again. It took Solas a moment to will the scowl off his face. Terrible as Lavellan’s clansmen were, Solas was still burdened with the staggering task of maintaining propriety. When he’d finally swallowed down the starting of an aggravated sigh, he asked neatly, carefully, “Is it so impossible to simply enjoy her company?”

“Her company, is it?” Her eye narrowed, frown sharpened to a sneer. “Is it a physical sort of company you’re enjoying?”

“Excuse me?”

“Well you’re fucking her, aren’t you?” If the appalled look on his face bothered her she certainly didn’t show it. “Let’s not dance around the topic. We’re all adults here. So is that it, then? Just a roll? Or did you want something else from her?”

Solas only stared.

“Is it because she’s the Inquisitor?” she flatly guessed. “You looking to carve out a pedestal for yourself in all that power and prestige?”

“ _No_.”

“Is it just the sex, then?”

Truly, of _all_ the…! “No,” he managed not to spit. “And it is frankly appalling that you-”

“Again, don’t have all day. Propriety is for people with nothing better to do. I’m here on business.” She surged forward to jab an accusing finger into his chest. “So what is it you’re taking, then?”

“Nothing!”

She sat back, glare simmering, but her sneer still cut sharp. “No one ever wants _nothing_. You all have something you want to steal. She make you feel good about yourself? She make you feel interesting?”

“ _What_?”

“Is it because she’s Dalish?” she tried again. “Some kind of power play? Oh, this naïve little Dalish thing, fresh out of the forest, come to learn how to be civilized like all the good, proper city elves—that the play you’re going for? You get off to her calling you _hahren?_ ”

“I am _not_ a- What is the purpose of this?”

“Just asking a simple question,” she defended. “So, what’s the answer then? What’s she giving you?”

“What is it that _you_ want from her?”

“I want her to be _happy,_ ” she spat out, “and people like you tend to get in the way of that. I know men like you. _People_ like you. You think she’s so intriguing, don’t you? So wild, so _different._ You think she’s such a _rush_.” The thin-drawn tilt of her lips was more a grimace than a smile. “You all want to siphon off some part of her that fulfills some idiot need. Sex, or power, of just vacant self-esteem. You always want something. So what is it, then? What are you taking?”

“Nothing,” he insisted. “I… I would never seek to diminish her for my own sake.”

“I don’t believe you.” Her glare cut precise. “They always want something. Well I’ll tell you right now, whatever it is you’re taking, you won’t keep it.”

“You…” It took a moment for it to click. “You’re worried for her?”

“Of course I am. _Someone_ has to be. Creators know she won’t ever worry for herself.”

Solas stared for longer than he meant to. Couldn’t seem to process how to do much else. “…who are you?”

“I’m her friend, you idiot. Who are _you?_ ”

“Her friend,” he weakly echoed. “How long have you known her?”

“Shut up. You don’t care and it doesn’t matter.”

He blinked. “…forgive me. I have not met many here who would call themselves her friend. It is…a surprise, but a comforting one. I fear we both may have misinterpreted the other’s intentions—perhaps it would be best if we start over?”

Marin took a moment to critically consider that before giving a brief nod and the tightest little quirk of a smile. She extended her hand to shake. “Marin,” she re-introduced. “A friend.”

“Solas. A friend, among other things. About your brother…”

“Nope,” she cut off preemptively. “So. Lilith ever talk about us?”

He thought to lie. Or better, to evade. “No,” he admitted instead. “Nothing substantial outside of the occasional comical anecdote pertaining to a scar.”

“You know the one right here?” She drew her finger across a spot on her abdomen, mirroring one of Lilith’s scars Solas was well acquainted with. “From the bull horn?”

“I do.”

“I’m the one from _that_ story.”

“The one who made the bet?” That…actually quite helped him. “Ah. So I have indeed heard of you.”

“You really serious about her? Truly?” She looked troubled, unsure, which was somehow worse than angry. The fretful pinch of her lips set him on edge. “You think you love her, do you?”

“Yes. I do.”

“…alright. That’s…well that’s good, I suppose. Yes. That’s good.” She cleared her throat. “Look, I know none of this means shite to you. I’m not stupid. You don’t care about our customs or our gods. That’s fine. I’m not asking you to. I only ask that you respect them.” She looked him dead in the eye. “Will you do that?”

Slowly, cautiously, he nodded.

“Good. Very good.” Marin shrugged her pack off and rifled around inside until she pulled out an ancient-looking golden-etched bottle and two tiny glasses, set neatly in line between them. “Then I invite you, Solas, friend among other things to Lilith, to join me in _han’hyn dirthala’ara.”_

She looked at him expectantly, back straight, jaw tilted purposefully up, hands outstretched in invitation. When he only stared back at her the focused look on her face turned bitter. “Seriously?” She groaned, rolling her eye. “…well, this kind of kills the vibe. You don’t know what any of that means, do you?” She waved off the question before even giving him a chance to answer it. “That was my fault, sorry—I guess I just assumed maybe Lilith had brought it up, or that you would…know more. My mistake. Let me start again.”

She breathed evenly out her nose, eyes slipping shut and then open again. “ _Han’hyn dirthala’ara_ ,” she announced with the sacred weight of a blessing. “It’s tradition. When a Dalish elf gives their heart to another, a bond is made. A vow of unity, not just between lovers, but with the whole clan. We are all of us People, you see? And so even if they leave, even if they wander, they are still with us. In this way a clan does not splinter—it only grows.”

She carefully poured the bottle’s contents into each small glass, head bowed, reverent. “Together we drink the traditional _dirtha’vhen’an_ to seal our vow and bond us before the gods. Or, something. To be honest it’s more just a polite gesture now than anything else. It’s like…an official-like way to say, ‘hey, you’re part of the family now, good on you.’ It’s kind of just a thing you’re supposed to do when an elf gets involved with an outsider.” She looked him swiftly up and down and shrugged. “No offense.”

“None taken.”

“Look, it’s just a tradition. And the Dalish _love_ tradition. So…there we are, I’m offering it to you. Clearly none of these other cockheads will, even though they’ve had plenty of damn time. And no, I don’t expect you to know about it, so you can stop making that face—you’re not _offending_ me.”

It was true Solas had never heard of this, although he would never admit to such ignorance. He supposed he had heard of similar uses of alcohol in ceremony before…that elves had apparently conjured up a new one without him noticing, though, was somewhat disconcerting. How old was this tradition supposed to be? “ _Dirtha’vhen’an?_ ”

“It’s Elven; it means a promise.”

“I am aware of what the word means.”

“It’s a Dalish spirit they only bust out for big, sappy events,” she explained instead. “Bonding ceremonies, birthdays, battle victories. It tastes like arse, but only our Keepers and Elders know how to make it, so it’s…sort of a big deal? Sorry, have you really never heard _any_ of this? …at all? Not even the tiniest bit?”

“A bit,” he lied.

Marin seemed…unconvinced. “Whatever. It’s not important. The point is, it’s supposed to be…special. Look, it doesn’t have to make sense to you, I’m just- I wanted to offer. It means something to us, and you mean something to her, so I’m…offering on her behalf. It’d be kind of fucking rude not to, frankly.” Something about that made her look far too sad, though. “Lilith would never admit it, but it’d mean something to her, too. I… I know she doesn’t hold to our customs like the rest of us, but it’d still mean something. She’s still _Dalish_.”

Whatever vulnerability she’d let slip was wiped away when she purposefully straightened her shoulders. She raised her tiny glass with two hands, held aloft like an offering. She nodded to his. “Go on, then.”

“I do not drink.”

“Ugh, it’s not for merriment, it’s ceremony. No one gets _drunk_ off dirtha’vhen’an _._ It’s _symbolic_. And what kind of idiot doesn’t _drink?_ ”

“I prefer not to partake in substances that disrupt sleep,” he stiffly explained. “It makes it difficult to enter the Fade.”

“Is that something you’d planned to do anytime soon?”

…no. He supposed it wasn’t. Solas, still unconvinced, only gave the bottle a wary look. “What exactly is in this symbolic drink?”

“You just have to suck the mystery and intrigue out of everything, don’t you? It’s bitter plum wine, you tit. Ever get drunk off a thimble of wine? No? Then let’s proceed.” She gave a curt nod to the tiny glass before him. “ _Creators,_ last time I try to do something nice…”

He cautiously picked up his glass.

“In the names of our creators and our gods,” she toasted, “Mythal, all-mother and protector—to love, and to family.” She raised the glass to her lips and paused, eye crinkling into a stony glare until Solas finally followed suit.

It was not the worst thing he had ever put in his mouth, but he could say with confidence that it was absolutely the second worst thing. He managed—by some manner of highest miracle—to swallow the vile poison without a wince, and that earned a comfortingly satisfied smile from Marin.

“Very good.” She gave a quick, sure nod. “Now, the second one.”

“The what?”

“It’s the _han’hyn dirthala’ara,”_ she said, as if that should have meant something to him. Or…oh, no. _No,_ no, _han_ \- “The eight-drink journey.”

“ _Eight?_ ” Seriously? _Honestly?_ Of all the-

“One for each god.” She’d already refilled the small glasses. “…you do know the elven gods, don’t you?”

“Of course I know the elven-” He stopped himself, frustration beginning to smolder dangerously. “Yes. Fine. Of course.” He drank the second without waiting for her. Grimaced. “To family.”

The second did not go down easier.

Marin made it even worse when she raised her glass and said, “To Elgar'nan, all-father and eldest of the sun.”

 _Ugh, no. Not to him. That vicious, snarling idiot and his-_ “Should there not be nine?” he snidely pointed out.

She refilled the glasses without missing a beat. “You want to drink to Fen’Harel?”

“Is there some dire consequence to that?”

“Don’t know,” she admitted. “Never tried. Seems like the last person whose attention you’d want to snag.”

“Yes,” he found himself agreeing. “Yes, I imagine it is.”

“It’s your call, _lethallin_.” She raised her glass and bowed her head. “To Fen’Harel,” she toasted, and capped it with a snicker, “the great betrayer.”

Solas stayed silent, and drank. He glanced furtively at Marin’s ruined eye when she raised her glass, and following the theme of the night, of course she caught it instantly.

“Want me to draw you a picture?” she offered. “It’d save you time.”

“Forgive me. I meant no offense.”

“People are curious creatures,” she said with a shrug. “I’m not upset with you over it. I’d be curious, too.” Suddenly her face grew troubled. “…did Lilith say something about it?”

She hadn’t. But… “Should she not have?”

Marin looked down at her glass, carefully avoiding his eyes. “I wish she’d forget it. It wasn’t… I just wish she’d forget. She knows I don’t- Well, it’s just a stupid thing to be hung up on. She knows I never cared.”

Solas raised a curious eyebrow, suddenly intrigued. “About the scar,” he ventured, “or her involvement in it?”

“It wasn’t her fault,” she defended. “Or it was, I guess, but in the way that everything is sort of everyone’s fault, isn’t it? ‘Oh, if only so-and-so had done this, if only whatserface had done that, blah, blah.’ If you try hard enough and go back far enough you can find a way to pin bad luck on just about anyone.”

“Bad luck?”

“Ill fortune, regrettable circumstance. Sometimes rotten things just happen. It’s not _Lilith’s_ fault.”

“And what happened was…?”

“Wrong words to the wrong people at the wrong time. That’s all. Sometimes things just happen.”

“And where was Lilith while these regrettable things happened?”

She didn’t answer that, though. Her hand reached instinctively for the leather band of her eyepatch and tugged it self-consciously lower. “Sometimes things just happen.”

“What does your Keeper say happened?”

 _“It was bad luck,”_ she snapped. Solas wasn’t sure if that, too, was an answer. “You don’t go stirring up shit about this, you hear me? She’s keen on you so I’m being courteous. You do right by her. You hear me? …what are you smiling about?”

Solas wiped the smile off his face. “Nothing,” he said. “It is… _refreshing_ to meet a friend of Lilith’s. That is all.”

“Lilith’s hard to be friends with,” she admitted, “but she’s a good friend. You just have to try hard enough.”  Her gaze cast downward, suspiciously avoiding his eyes. “She’s never done any wrong by me. You be good to her, and she won’t do any wrong by you, either. Now…” She refilled the two small glasses, and nodded for him to take it. “Ready for the next?”

Far too quickly later they’d soldiered through the final ninth glass, when Marin leaned back and cocked her head in study. “You know,” she decided aloud, “you really are her type.”

Solas felt…wrong. As if- “And what is her type?”

Marin laughed, and in a quick swipe gathered up her empty glasses and tucked them back into her pack. She gave Solas a wicked little closemouthed smile, a mocking parody of sympathy, and winked.

“Suckers.”

 

* * *

 

 

She’d promised herself she wouldn’t.

After all the failed attempts at conversation that day, Lilith had sworn to herself she’d let it go. There were better things to expend energy on, more productive things—whatever Solas was so wrapped up in just wasn’t her problem right now. It _wasn’t._ She _wouldn’t_.

…she did anyway.

The fall of a cloudy and starless night left her restless, mind no longer kept busy by distractions. She thought of all the words she’d said and all the ones she wished she’d said instead. She promised she wouldn’t.

She went looking for him, anyway.

When she found Solas again he was sitting cross-legged atop the wooden platform in the rotunda, staring determinedly at the bare wall as if preparing to paint. She noted a single crooked line drawn before him, and no other progress. He was deep in focus when she cleared her throat and waved.

“Adding to the mural?” she inquired.

Solas didn’t look down at her. Just kept staring, still focused, still determined, and still very clearly not painting. And…slightly swaying? “Yes. I wanted to paint you.”

“Having some trouble with that?”

“Yes,” he agreed. “I am having trouble with many things.”

It took Lilith approximately 0.2 seconds to catch something off about that. “You okay?”

“Yes.” He still hadn’t broken his stare. “I am thinking.”

Wait. “…have you been _drinking?_ ”

“No,” he dismissed, sounding vaguely offended. Then: “I spoke to your friend.” And oh, that was a terrible way to start a sentence. Lilith didn’t want to hear that right now. “Marin.”

Oh, she definitely didn’t want to hear _that_. “Of course you did,” she sighed. “Let me guess. She gave you _dirtha’vhen’an_.”

“It is customary to-”

“No it’s not,” she gently corrected. “There’s no such thing as _han’hyn dirthala’ara_ ; it’s just Antivan wine she mixes with grain alcohol and pours into an old perfume bottle. Very _strong_ grain alcohol. She was trying to get you drunk.”

“No, but…” His eyes slipped shut, concentrating. “She drank, too.”

“No she didn’t,” she wearily informed. “She never does.” Lilith should know—she was the one who taught her that trick. “I can’t believe you fell for the eight-drink learning journey.”

“I did not _fall_ for…!” He swung his arm back in a dramatic gesture and was shocked into silence when the movement nearly threw him off balance. He dropped his head into his hands, fingers massaging his temples, and took a deep breath that released in a tired, defeated sigh. “Why?” he asked simply.

“Because it was funny,” Lilith answered. “And because she could.”

“I hate your family.” It wasn’t said with any sort of malice—only a neutral statement of fact. The sky is blue. The age is Dragon. “This reunion was a mistake.”

“If it makes you feel any better, she only pulls _han’hyn dirthala’ara_ on people she likes.”

“She said she was your friend,” he bemoaned. “Why did I believe her?”

“I mean, she is, sort of. We used to date.”

“What?” He stared. Blinked hard. Stared again. “ _What?_ ”

“I really can’t believe you fell for the eight-drink learning journey.”

“Nine.”

“What?”

“Nine. It was nine.” He rubbed his eyes as if that would help clear his head; took a deep, slow breath. “One for Fen’Harel.”

“Why?”

“I do not know,” he woefully admitted. “I wanted to be included. It felt important at the time.”

“You wanted to…? Never mind. Of course you did.”

“I let this happen.” He uttered it with such tortured realization, a dark epiphany. “I have lost control of my life.”

“You never had control,” she sweetly reassured. “So technically you haven’t lost anything.” She waited patiently for the sweet idiot to ask for help, but of course he didn’t. He never did. “Do you need help getting down?” she offered.

Head still cradled in his hands, he muttered, defeated and begrudging, “Yes. Thank you.”

Lilith climbed up the ladder and offered a steadying hand that he wordlessly accepted. “So what’d you talk about?” she asked as she helped him down.

He looked at her—past her—and smiled. “You.”

“And how did that go for you?”

“It went quite well,” he quipped. “She poisoned me.”

“She does that, yeah.”

“I don’t understand how she did this. How did she _manage_ -”

“It’s 92% alcohol,” she reminded, “and you drank what probably added up to a solid eight or nine ounces of it in the timespan of, I’m guessing, ten, fifteen minutes? See, that’s how she gets you. I genuinely do hate to do this to you, but I’m going to be frank—it only gets worse from here for the next eighteen hours or so.”

He uttered, gravely, “ _No_.”

“It’s terrible, I know. I never should have showed it to her.” Nothing holy had ever come from the Eight Drink Journey. “For what it’s worth, you should be proud—most people are sick by now.”

He said, again, “ _No_.”

He stumbled coming off the last rung, and Lilith pulled him close to steady him. “Hey,” she said. “I’m sorry we fought. I don’t want to fight with you.”

“You do not need to apologize. I was…unhelpful. I should have been better.”

“So, truce then? Friends again?”

“Yes. Friends.”

She led him to the couch, where he dropped gracelessly onto the cushions, and took a dutiful seat beside him. It appeared she’d spend tonight babysitting, then. Not the worst possible outcome for the night, she guessed.

Solas gazed at her with a dazed and distant smile. “You are so beautiful.”

“I know,” she said. “Thank you.”

He meant to lean into her but ended up just sort of sliding down in his seat. Face crammed against her shoulder, he murmured earnest confessions of adoration like poetry. Presumably. Lilith assumed it was meant to be poetic, even if it slipped haphazardly between two different languages and at _least_ three different dialects. He did say “beautiful” a lot. That was sweet.

“You’re so beautiful.”

“So I’ve heard. Thank you.” She shifted her shoulder, and wriggled her arm free of his grasp long enough to push him back up into a somewhat sitting position. He dropped back against her as soon as she let him go, head settling happily atop hers.

“ _Ar lath ma_ ,” he sighed.

“Because I’m so beautiful, right?”

“No,” he defended. “Or, yes, but not...” Somehow he’d managed to slide down to her shoulder again. As his head came to rest face-first atop her chest, he sighed with far too much melodrama, “You are… _so much_.”

She gently lifted his head back to her shoulder, and considered that perhaps there was a god after all—this certainly felt like some truly poetic divine punishment. “Not the first time I’ve heard that.”

“You’re so beautiful.” She felt the brush of his lips as he spoke, spilling lovely, slurred words against her throat. He kissed her neck, her jaw; lingered over her cheek, breath warm through parted lips. His hands fell to her waist and pulled tight. “You could have been so much.”

“I thought I already was so much.”

“Yes,” he agreed. “Yes. Yes…” He dropped a fervent “yes” between each kiss; trailed them across her shoulder, down to her collarbones, breathed a heavy sigh and kissed her neck with a heated desire he never let slip outside of their bedroom. It wasn’t until he sucked her skin between his teeth that she finally, gently pushed him away.

“We really need to learn how to sync up our drunken nights.”

“You are so beautiful.”

“So I’ve heard.”

“ _Andruil_ thought herself beautiful.” He uttered her name with such revile. “You are…so much better.”

“The all-great Goddess of Sacrifice? I don’t remember vanity being part of her mythos.”

“Of course not.” His head dropped again, words mumbled directly into her cleavage. "Whoever would remember _that?_ A _bow_ is clearly far more relevant to her character. The rest is irrelevant; think instead of this very special _weapon_. A vain, cruel…”

Lilith lifted his head back up without comment. “Not a friend of yours, I take it.”

“What?”

“Nothing.”

He nuzzled his face into the curve of her neck, face flushed, smile sweet. “You would have been so much better.”

“Than Andruil?”

“Than any of them.”

“That’s very sweet,” she assured. “Thank you.”

“You are so beautiful.”

“Again. Very sweet.”

His hand snaked between her legs to smooth over her inner thigh and _squeeze_. His touch traveled, eager and graceless; found his desired destination and pressed so _sweetly,_ and… For a blissful, agonizing moment she let her hips tilt up into his touch, grind against the slow stroke of his fingers, let herself _revel_ … It took an embarrassing amount of energy to bring herself to move his hand. “You’re drunk,” she sadly informed.

“You’re beautiful.”

“Both true statements.”

“I am not drunk.”

“Which is exactly what a drunk person would say.”

He sighed, head drooping down to slide back atop her chest, but this time she gave up trying to move him. “Why bother learning the mythos of gods you do not even revere?”

“The study of gods is a study of people,” she said. “And you can’t conquer something you don’t understand.”

“And you claim to understand the nature of gods and men?”

“Understanding one is to understand the other. Gods are just men by a different name.”

“Are men then gods?”

“My sweet, drunken love,” she cooed, “of course not. Everyone knows the only true god is Bear Rock God.”

She watched an argument die as soon as it ignited. Solas sunk against her and sighed. “Yes. Praise to Bear Rock God.” His eyes clouded. “Do you think there is anything…bigger? Something better, somewhere?”

“What, like an honest-to-god god?”

“Yes. Like that.”

“Maybe,” she said. “If there is, I bet she’s super hot.”

He laughed harder than he meant to. “Or maybe it truly is a rock.”

“But I bet it’s one good-looking rock.” Her smile wilted just slightly at the edges. “For a non-Dalish unbeliever, you have an awful lot of interest in their pantheon.”

“The Fade,” he mumbled.

“The Fade what?”

“It is…there. It’s in the Fade.” He took a deep breath and hummed through a blissful exhale. “You are so beautiful.”

“Did the Fade tell you that, too?”

He didn’t seem to register that, though. Presently he seemed to be…somewhere else entirely. Somewhere soft and far. “There are still those that would call you a heretic, you know,” he said. “A madwoman grasping for power, furthering her own dark agenda.”

“There are,” she agreed. “There always will be.”

“Does it not bother you?” His voice was exasperated, rising to something almost hysteric. “You have given everything to your people, sacrificed everything, your safety, your family, your _name_ —there is no aspect left of yourself that does not in some manner belong to the Inquisition. After all that you’ve fought for, the time and blood you’ve given…and they do not appreciate it. You ended a civil war and the very inept monarch whose life and empire you saved will likely take credit for it. All anyone ever does is _take.”_

“I don’t do it to be liked,” she said. “I do it because people deserve to be saved. It’s not about me.”

“Yes, but…” He struggled for words, for composure. “Are you never discouraged?”

“As long as people are still alive to take credit for my work, then no, I’m not. The point is saving people. If they’re still kicking, I’d say we’re on the right track.”

“They will not thank you.”

“You don’t do it to be thanked. You do it because people deserve to be their own. Maybe they won’t praise you in the future, but at least they have the freedom to do so.”

He nodded, but the motion rang with defeat more than understanding. “You possess a rare and marvelous spirit. I hope you realize that.”

“So I’ve been told.”

“There are some who would paint you as a villain,” he darkly warned. “The history they write will remember you only for your failures.”

“Sometimes that’s helpful, too. People need a boogeyman as much as they need a savior.”

“You deserve better than that.”

“I told you,” she said. “It’s not about me. My job is to be whatever helps people survive. No one said I had to look good doing it.”

“Years from now, they may use your name as a curse.”

“Oh, honey,” she comforted. “Some already do.”

He took a deep and shuddering breath. “Would you…can you say something in Elven?”

“What do you want me to say?”

“Anything,” he pleaded. “Please. I miss hearing it.” He looked so sad. “I miss so many things.”

Lilith, of course, was all too happy to oblige. “ _Jutuan ma ir rosas’da’din, ma tel’aman melin.”_

Normally when she strung together something filthy Solas would respond with some exhausted reminder about phrasing, but now he only laughed and asked in slurred Elven, _“Is that a promise?”_

 _“Dir'vhen'an,”_ she confirmed. _Promise._

The sound softened the fretful creases of his brows, tension easing. “ _Emma sa’lath_ ,” he murmured, and it sounded so mournful.

_My one love._

He spilled murmured words of adoration between each soft, open kiss— _ara’lin, arasha, vhen’an’ara_ —my lover, my happiness, my heart’s desire. He called her his, over and over again, until it almost started to sound believable.

“ _Ar lath ma,_ ” he vowed, and it sounded so pleading. So terribly, painfully raw. “ _Ir abelas. Ir abelas. Ar lath ma…_ ”

_I’m sorry, I’m sorry…_

He moved to kiss her mouth and instead caught her cheek when she turned away. “Come on,” she sadly announced, “you need to go to bed.”

She’d wanted so badly for him to touch her again, to _want_ to touch her, but this brought no comfort. Nothing about this made her feel better. He stood waveringly with her help, but did not respond when she gently tugged at his arm for him to follow. His hands found her hips, fingers dipping to slip beneath her bunched skirt, touch warm against her skin. He spoke in hushed, slurred Elven. “ _Tell me what you want.”_

Lilith wanted so many things. Love. Sex. _Touch._ More than anything, though, she didn’t want it like this. She pushed at his shoulder and he promptly withdrew his hand. “I _want_ you to remember this. Try again tomorrow.”

“Apologies,” he struggled to offer. “I would not… I never- Apologies. You’re beautiful. I’m so sorry.” His fingers curled in, nails digging into his palms; he took a wavering step back with a hollow look of horror and shoulders that sunk too low. Lilith gave a fretful _tsk._

“No, I didn’t mean-” She had to lunge forward to grab his hand and pull him back in. Even with her hand clasped in his, he still never dropped that hollowness, that resigned sort of dread that made her heart ache. He still wasn’t… _there._ Not how she wished he was. How she needed him to be. “I love you, okay? And now you need to sleep. And tomorrow you can touch me all you want. I _heartily_ encourage it. But we’re sleeping now, yeah?”

“Yes,” he agreed, still hollow, still gone. “Yes. Of course.”

She reached to touch his face, and he melted into her touch with closed eyes and a broken exhale that snagged too closely on a sob.

“No one’s sad tonight,” she assured. “Today was fine. Today was fine-ish. I love you. Let’s go to bed.”

He breathed out apologies that cracked and wavered. “I do not deserve you.”

“No one deserves anyone,” she said. “We just take what we can and enjoy it while it lasts.”

“You’re so beautiful.” He still looked ready to cry. “I do not deserve this.”

“Why are you sad about that?”

“Because you are real. You are…so real. And I’m sorry. You are so beautiful. I’m sorry.”

She only sighed. “We really should have synced this up.”

He kept trying to talk to her as she half-drug him through the hall, which proved to be the night’s biggest trial so far. “Are you not still angry?” he asked.

“Oh, I am _stupidly_ angry, but I’m not going to fight with a drunk man. No one wins that fight. Now, _sober-Solas_ is going to get an earful, but that’s his problem.”

“I am not drunk.”

“Right,” she said, “you’re _not_ drunk, you _didn’t_ use tongue in the Fade…you know, Solas, no one likes a liar.”

He began to staunchly protest, “ _I did not- !”_ but fell silent midway through and went instead with, “…I had not intended to.”

“Ironically, applicable to both situations.”

“You’re so beautiful,” he said again, caught precariously on the verge of tears. “I love your nose.”

“That’s sweet.”

“I’m sorry I didn’t before.”

“Less sweet,” she said. “But you get credit for trying.”

“It is a good nose. You-” His face crumpled. “I wish you had been there. You could have changed so much. Could have changed _everything_.”

“Next time,” she promised with a comforting pat on his shoulder. “Now how about we focus on walking, okay?”

“I’m sorry,” he pressed on. “I…you have no idea how sorry. If I could only _explain_ -”

“While I appreciate the sentiment, I don’t think conversation is such a great idea right now.” When he soldiered on she silenced him with a finger pressed to his lips. “I would love for you to talk to me about this. But you have to choose to do it. Otherwise it doesn’t count.”

“I fear I will not want to tomorrow.”

“I know,” she sadly admitted. “And that’s the problem.”

She led him upstairs to bed—his, for once, that distant, mythical place—but he stalled in the doorway, hand still clasped with hers. “Would you not prefer ou- your chambers?”

“You want to sleep in _my_ room?”

“I…” He looked so sad. She wished he’d stop. “I want you. I want only you.”

She meant to dryly thank him again, but he touched a reverent hand to her face and kissed her, long and sweet and soft. Lilith was the one to pull away. A firm hand against his chest both steadied and separated him. “Don’t get me wrong,” she said. “I would love to do this, but this isn’t how I wanted it. You’re supposed to… I wanted…” Her heart broke. “This isn’t you. This is spiked wine, and an absence of thought. This doesn’t… _mean_ anything.”

“I love you.” He dropped his forehead against hers, eyes slipped shut. “ _Lasa em tua rosas’da’din_.”

“As much as I would love for you to do that, you’re drunk.” She tried not to look as sad as she felt. “Try me tomorrow, Charmer.”

“I do not do this,” he weakly protested. “Normally. I do not- I am _tactful.”_

“Most of the time.”

“You are just…so much.”

Lilith wasn’t sure whether that was meant to be a good thing or not.

“I’m so sorry, _vhenan_.”

“I know,” she comforted. “Let’s go to bed.”

She stayed and sat with him while he fell asleep. His hands kept wandering, seeking warmth, but eventually he was content just to pass out with an arm draped over her.

“ _Ar lath ma,”_ he vowed into his pillow. Lilith gave his shoulder a reassuring pat.

“I love you, too, you tall idiot.”

“In another world,” he mourned. “We could have- I never- You…” His voice broke. “You are so much better. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

“Don’t worry about it tonight. That’s sober-Solas’ problem, yeah? You just need to go to sleep. You like sleep.”

Lilith knew who she was. She needed no debate, no reminders or trials, but…

“…I hate that my family is here.” She wasn’t sure who she was saying it for. “I don’t hate _them_ —just that they’re here.”

“Yes,” he agreed. Possibly to both parts. He moved nearer to her, arm drawing tighter. “I never meant for this. Please, believe that I mean that.” His voice cracked on a sob. “Please. I never meant for this.”

“Hey, what did I say about this? Save it for tomorrow.”

It took a long stretch of half-coherent apologies and tearful jumbles of Elven, but eventually he finally let himself drift. Lilith gently drug her nails up his back, watching as his breathing gradually slowed. He murmured something only half-awake, and Lilith only nodded and offered a disinterested, “Mhm.”

She thought back to Lysette. To whispered warnings and rumored conversations. To a hand slipped coldly out of her grasp. She thought back to the point where so many events had coincided.

“Do you think some people are just poison?” she asked the empty air. She traced abstract shapes over Solas’ back with a drag of her finger. “Like they just…naturally breed discontent? _Conflict?_ Like…” She studied her arm. Her marked hand. “Maybe some people are like a living embodiment of gangrene. You know? This rotting thing, poisoning whatever it’s attached to. And you just have to-” She mimed a clean slice. “Cut it off. Move on.”

“Yes,” he softly murmured. She wasn’t sure in regards to what.

“Maybe neither of us is entirely who we want to be. Who we present ourselves to be. But that can change. Right? Everything can change. We have to. It’s what makes us people.” She stared ahead into nothing. “We can still be better, can’t we?”

This time Solas had no response.

Lilith knew who she was. Knew so very many things. “I’ll ruin you, you know.” She only noted it as an afterthought. A brief and simple fact, said in passing. “Eventually.”

Solas laughed. “Impossible. I ruined you first.” His grin cracked, wide and crooked, delighted at some dark inside joke. “I ruined you before I even met you.”

That made her laugh. “Oh, honey, trust me—there’s nothing you could ever do to ruin me.”

There was nothing anyone could do to ruin her.

“…Solas?”

He made a soft closemouthed noise, the best reply she was going to get.

“Why won’t you touch me?”

He hummed some wordless response, arm drawing tighter around her, but that wasn’t the answer she was looking for.

“Did something happen? Did I do something?”

“You,” he slurred into his pillow, “are so much.”

“So much _what?_ ”

“So much.”

“Is that good or bad?”

“Good,” he managed. “Good.”

“Good,” she repeated, half-hearted. “Alright. So…why don’t you want me, anymore?”

But he’d already fallen asleep.

Lilith gingerly slid out from under his arm, careful not to wake him. He mumbled something needful in his sleep, a mournful barely-conscious request. “ _Can you say something in Elven?”_

She couldn’t help herself. Before she left she leaned down, laid a gentle kiss to his temple, and purred, _“Neran ihn bre’palas, i vallasan bredhas i’ma’da’vin.”_

She hoped his dreams were sweet.

 

She stopped Dorian when she passed him down in the main hall. Her fingers curled into his collar to reel him in close, brow bunched, mouth pinched in a tight-lipped snarl. Her voice was an eerily even-toned, forceful whisper. “If I don’t get some dick in the next 24 hours I swear to every god you people believe in that I am going to punch a hole through the solid stone walls of this castle.”

Unsure of the appropriate response to that, Dorian said only, “Ah.” and reached to stiffly pat her head. “My condolences.”

_“I am dying.”_

“You fellated the man in my _chair._ Pardon me for not being sympathetic to your plight at the moment.”

“Dorian,” she implored, “it’s been three days.”

“…hold on, I’m sorry—did you just say three days? _Days?_ ”

“I want to die.”

“Three _days?!”_ Dorian had to stop himself from physically ripping out his own hair. He smoothed his hands back through his scalp; breathed deep. “Lilith,” he gently began, “are you honestly telling me you’re this upset over _three days_ of relative celibacy?”

“Don’t mock my pain,” she said. “That’s more than I’m used to.”

“ _And?_ I’m sorry, aren’t there other things you could be putting your energy toward? Preventing the end of the world, foiling the apocalyptic dreams of a darkspawn magister, perhaps? _Maker._ I know there’s an apocalypse looming, but even for the end of the world that’s excessive.”

“ _I’m going to punch something.”_

“You’re incredible,” he scoffed. “Truly.”

“ _Hey,”_ she snapped. “You have no right to say anything. I know what you did last night, you hypocrite. You sinner.”

Dorian drew upon his proud Tevinter heritage to lie with the utmost convincingness, “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“He’s my _clansmen,_ ” she stated flatly. “He literally told me first thing this morning.”

Well, not _told_ her, exactly—he’d opted instead to point to Dorian, point to himself, and graphically mime a blowjob. Afterward he flashed her a double thumbs up, and mimed something impressively more graphic until their horrified clan elder finally marched up and drug him away by the ear. The message was not hard to decode.

“Really glad you had fun,” she said. “Oh, I should mention—I taught him everything he knows, so, you’re welcome—you essentially just got head from me. Congrats. Hope it was worth having to hear that absolutely horrible sentence spoken aloud.”

“ _Eugh,_ what- ? Why would you _tell_ me that?”

“ _Bravo_ ,” she aggressively congratulated. “Hope you enjoyed yourself.”

“Why would you tell me that?!”

“I don’t know,” she said. “Why would you sleep with my _ex?”_

“ _Vishante kaffas,_ I thought he was family!”

“Ew, that’s worse!”

Dorian grasped wildly for a valid argument. “In my defense, you said not to fight anyone.” Nope, definitely not that one.

“ _So this is better?”_

“…no. No, sorry. I don’t actually have any sort of argument here, it’s just habit. I should not have done that.”

She heaved a great sigh, fingers rubbing tight circles at her temples. She never did manage to shake that tension headache. “…it’s fine. I’m not mad; I think I’m just bitter. I mean, I’m a little mad, but more angry at greater outside forces beyond your control than at _you_. Honestly, he’s a nice boy—we were good friends. Good eye, I guess? Well done? This is a weird situation for me and I’m going to be honest, I have no idea how to appropriately show a reaction to it.”

“Right, just to clarify—you’re _not_ upset with me?”

“I think I’m just upset overall, like as a state of existence.”

“It should go without saying but I feel I should remind you anyway—obviously I wouldn’t have if I’d known he was…you were…”

“Nah, it’s fine. We never actually dated, it just kinda…happened once. I was trying to get to his sister, actually.” She stared off into the distance. “Gotta say, though, I can’t blame you.”

“You know, I feel I should bring up that this is likely the week’s most successful diplomatic relation so far. So in a way, really, I’ve helped you.”

And, well. Lilith had to be fair. “Yeah. It kind of was.”

“…I’m sorry, you knew this was coming though—so about this morning, ‘that one thing’…”

“You know exactly what it is,” she warned, “and so does Riel.”

Dorian gave a curt nod. “Right, well. Thank you for the conversation. It was terrible and I regret every aspect of it from start to finish. Happy to call you my friend, Lilith—I wish you nothing but luck on whatever horrible thing you’re wrapped up in presently. Good night.”

“Hey, wait.” She moved to reach for him but pulled back, hands fidgeting anxiously before her. “…today sucked. I really hated it. I’m incredibly uncomfortable with my clan being here, and I’m doing a really bad job of hiding it. I’m… _not_ doing well.” She’d meant to go on but had to cut off there. That wasn’t somewhere she wanted to go right now. “It was just a bad day. Can you tell me something nice?”

Dorian noticed the jaggedness of her fingernails—picked and peeled into sharp little points—and knew instantly something was wrong.

He didn’t miss a beat. “Harrit gave your clan’s ironsmith a frankly ill-considered amount of dragon bone, which they are all _very_ pleased about; the mages have all been getting on quite well, which as much as I would love to take full credit for, you can also in part thank Vivienne, because the woman is a veritable _artist_ of manipulating a conversation; your Keeper is an utterly delightful woman, please bring her with you when you visit me on holidays; and your taste in men is at least a fraction better than I previously thought. Overall, a minor success. Besides—in Tevinter I don’t think you can even legally call it a reunion until there’s at least one patricide; so on that scale, I’d say this is a massive success. Just exemplary work, all around. Also, you look lovely with braids, your nose is magnificent and I want it sculpted in marble, and you’re still a very pretty olive. You’re doing splendidly. You’re incredible. You’re a goddess. You terrify me. I adore you.”

Her smile gained a little more genuineness. “If one of us is ever made ruler of a kingdom, can I be the other half of your loveless political marriage?”

“You’d be my very first choice.”

“Due to prior obligations I might have to skip town and be a pirate for a while.”

“Even weirder,” he said. “I support it.” When she still hadn’t stopped fidgeting he held her firm with a hand anchored on each shoulder. “Family is a nightmare,” he assured, “but we already had my tragic personal backstory moment, so try as you might, yours will just never beat it. The secrecy, the espionage; a shady tavern, a dramatic reveal, the climactic confrontation between father and son—it even had an _exile_. Absolutely riveting. Your family reunion will just never be that glorious of a disaster. The pressure is off. You can relax.”

“Unless someone gets punched.”

“No one is getting punched.”

“Chaos, Dorian.”

“Lilith, no.”

She wiped quickly at an eye Dorian didn’t even noticed had begun to glisten. “Thank you. For this. You’re my best friend, you know that?”

“You’re my only friend, technically, so I suppose that makes you the best by default.”

“Aw,” she said, “you have other friends. You like Sera.”

“I feel an unfathomable amount of ways about Sera, but chiefest among them is more likely ‘horrible fascination.’ …so very dear acquaintances, then.”

She gave a small but refreshingly genuine laugh, and cracked a dry, tired smile. “So, did you hear I’m a whore?”

Dorian replied without a moment’s hesitation, face miraculously deadpan. “I’d always just assumed that from knowing you as a person.”

Lilith gasped, hand flying to her heart, and with her mouth still agape slowly blinked. “You’re my best friend in the whole world,” she uttered adoringly, tearing up a little. “I would absolutely behead a man for you.”

“Thank you,” he said. “You most definitely have. And besides, what’s a few more days of this reunion, anyway?”

Lilith took a deep breath. “Dorian,” she gently reminded, “you managed to somehow offend or otherwise upset a solid half of my clansmen within a matter of days. All of you, twelve people. My closest confidantes. Most trusted friends. My inner circle. My advisors.” She pressed in close, unblinking. “Dorian. _Days._ ”

“Not to be needlessly contrary, but in my defense we were incredibly ill-prepared.”

“You know what? I take it back,” she announced. “Varric did nothing wrong. He’s not included in this. In fact, _he’s_ my new best friend.”

“Are you serious?”

“Varric is perfect.”

“ _Ugh_.” His eyes narrowed in a dramatic show of insult. “You’re a horrid little gremlin woman, you’re aware of that, yes?”

“But am I a _pretty_ horrid little gremlin woman?”

“Positively stunning,” he affirmed. “And I adore you utterly.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> whatup have some **incredibly NSFW elven**
> 
> lilith u nasty ho, this is why the old gods don't talk to us anymore
> 
> Jutuan ma ir rosas’da’din, ma tel’aman melin. || _"I will make you cum so much that you won’t remember your name."_
> 
> Lasa em tua rosas’da’din. || _"Let me make you cum."_
> 
> Neran ihn bre’palas, i vallasan bredhas i’ma’da’vin. || _"I like it when you fuck me deep and paint my insides with your cum."_


	19. Chapter 19

Lilith awoke like a cat from a pleasant nap in the sun—with all of her limbs dramatically outstretched, and a wide, vaguely threatening yawn. She leaned forward on her arms, forehead touched to the mattress, and the horrible _click_ of each vertebrae cracking in a ripple up her spine was as nauseating as it was fascinating. Halfway hanging off the far side of the bed, Dorian groaned under his pillow. Even with it held firmly over his head, he still managed to hear her.

“Are you sure bones are supposed to sound like that?” he asked, for the hundredth time.

“Yeah, definitely.” She rotated her wrists and the pop of every joint made him shudder.

He curled tighter into a ball and nearly tipped off the bed’s edge. Suddenly he remembered why they stopped sharing tents on their wilderness excursions.

Dorian had let her stay with him that night. He tried to make it sound like his idea, of course— _Ah, what an idea! A nice evening in. Like camping, but indoors, and with an actual bed. What a delightful little concept._ And it _was_ a delightful little concept, but he’d be lying to say it wasn’t sparked in part by the look on her face when Dorian bid goodnight. The reflexive picking at her nails. The anxious way she lingered in the hall. Her temple twitched, muscle beneath spasming in the buildup of a headache. 

“A nice evening in,” he’d repeated, forcibly hauling her out of her misery with an arm around her shoulder. “With absolutely no alcohol, because it’s an awful demon elixir that we are never touching again. Isn’t it?”

She sighed. “Yes.”

He and Lilith had shared tighter quarters before—and much, much worse ones—so none of her peculiar sleeping habits were a surprise, necessarily. Perhaps an unpleasant reminder, though.

“That was the best sleep I’ve gotten in weeks,” she sleepily declared with a horrid cracking of her shoulder.

“You slept, at most, six hours. I know this because I, too, only slept, at most, six hours. Out of sheer fascination, how are you alive, exactly?”

She shrugged. The elbow she had stretching upward popped.

“Also, why are you so _hot?_ Is it possible you’re somehow constantly running a low-grade fever?”

An impressive twist of her torso made a terrible sound in her back. “Just lucky, I guess.”

He sighed, his impossible dream of sleeping in drifting further and further out of reach. “You know you kick in your sleep, don’t you?”

“Oh, yeah, tons. You know you _cling_ in your sleep, don’t you?”

“Of course I do,” he countered. “You’re small and a thousand degrees. It’s like a very firm, heated pillow.” Dorian looked over at her at the exact moment she cracked her neck. He had to watch that happen. He had to _experience_ that. “Are you _sure_ bones are supposed to sound like that?”

“Maybe?” she guessed. A slow beat of silence left her gaze wandering, focusing on some invisible thing in the distance. “…hey. Thanks for letting me stay with you.”

“It’s negative five-fucking-hundred degrees in this castle at night,” he instantly reported. “Keeping you nearby is the only sensible way to stave off frostbite.” His eyes finally skimmed lower, and he couldn’t help but sigh. “When did you take off your pants?” He glanced around, genuinely baffled. “And where _are_ they?”

“I never really know.”

She pulled the blanket with her when she slipped out of bed, and Dorian instantly snatched it back. “ _Maker._ Is it _snowing_ outside? Why is it this cold?” He retreated beneath a bunched shield of blankets, voice a muffled grumble. “What is _wrong_ with the South?”

“I like it,” Lilith said, rolling her shoulders back before bending to stretch her hands to the floor. “It’s brisk.”

Dorian pushed himself up on his elbows, an argument already prepared in entirety, and looked like he’d been physically slapped by the chill air. “This is just absurd. The South is a _frozen wasteland_.” He hurriedly waved for her to return, blanket shield cracked just barely open. “Quick, back! Before I start losing fingers.”

“But-”

“ _Make awful bone noises in bed; I’m dying_.”

She climbed back under the sheets and blessedly—worryingly?—brought with her the relative heat of a small fireplace.

“Don’t take this as a complaint,” Dorian said, “because it really is remarkably convenient for me, but _is_ it possible you’re always running a fever?”

“That would explain a lot of things about my life.”

“I worry about you.”

“As well you should.”

He sighed. “…speaking of worry. You do know I have to ask, don’t you?”

“I’m kind of surprised you managed not to for this long.”

Honestly, so was Dorian. “About Solas…” Well, no sense being delicate. “You realize you could do better, do you not?”

“Yeah,” she agreed, “but I like him.”

“Why? Not to be rude, but…actually, I mean full well to be rude—what do you see in him?”

She stared up at the high bedroom ceiling with wistful eyes and a stern sort of thoughtfulness to the set of her mouth. Dorian expected a poignant reply.

She took a slow and steadying breath. “Have you ever come so hard your face went numb?”

“…I don’t know what I expected from you, but it wasn’t that.”

“There’s other reasons, too.”

“No. No thank you. That’s all. I retract the question. I regret the question. You win.”

She went on anyway, because of course she did. “He’s also a very cunning linguist.”

“Ugh, stop.”

“Got a real silver tongue.”

“ _Stop_. I know what you’re doing and it’s neither cute nor clever.”

“Okay, but _have_ you, though? Like full-on numb?”

Before he could formulate a fitting reply to that absolutely awful question, he found himself most curtly interrupted. The bedroom door slammed open, and Bull excitedly—and _rudely_ —burst in to exclaim, “Dorian! Holy shit, you’ve gotta see this, someone—oh, hey Boss—someone set the bog unicorn free in the market and everyone’s too grossed out by it to catch it. It’s fucking _hilarious_.”

Lilith gasped. “Lady Fairmane!” She leapt/fell out of bed, scrambling to frantically snatch up clothes. “Be nice to my horse; she’s misunderstood!”

Dorian made a frustrated sound, grasping futilely at the air. “Wait, I needed her! I wanted to sleep in!” The frigid bite of mountain air sent him snatching for another blanket. “Do you want me to _freeze?_ ”

Bull watched her tear the room apart and cleared his throat. “Behind the dresser, far wall,” he offered, and when Lilith emerged triumphant with her lost pants he looked to Dorian and shrugged. “She always throws them in her sleep. Like, really _chucks_ ‘em. Got a good arm.”

“I told you,” Lilith argued, hurriedly tugging on a lovely, silk-lined coat, “I get _hot._ ”

“She does,” Dorian agreed.

“I kind of like it,” Bull said with a loose shrug. “Reminds me of home, you know?” When he looked back to Lilith Dorian spotted a terrible gleam in his eye. “So,” he asked, knowing full well what he was doing, “how’d last night go? Heard you and Solas spent some quality off-duty time together.”

“ _Ugh_.” The sour frown on Lilith’s face was answer enough. “Honestly, what’s even the appeal of men?”

Dorian looked between them with a raised brow. “…am I meant to know the answer to that, or were you just shouting it out into the void?”

“Sometimes they’re taller,” Bull answered. “That’s probably really handy.”

Dorian pinned him with a tired glare. “Don’t _answer_ her, you idiot. Don’t encourage this.”

“No,” Lilith defended. “He’s right, it really is useful having someone who can reach high shelves.”

“Or you could just get a ladder,” Bull thought it pertinent to point out, earning a swiftly-launched pillow straight at his face from Dorian.

Finally sort-of dressed, Lilith dashed out the door and into the fray, an echoing shout of, “Hey! _Be nice to my fucking hors_ e!” fading behind her. Dorian watched her go and sighed.

“That’s my coat,” he observed with a wistful, faraway gaze. “I’m going to fucking freeze _._ ”

 

* * *

 

Solas awoke like a plague victim from a fever coma—burning, miserable, and just a _tiny_ bit delirious. His head pounded, his throat painfully dry. He sat with a long, tortured groan, every fiber of his body seemingly dying at once, and was almost instantly hit with the overwhelming urge to vomit. His sleep had been fitful and dreamless, a combination of dizziness and nausea preventing him from even _thinking_ of the Fade, let alone entering it.

Oh, he could not have been more grateful.

The night before was…hazy, admittedly. But while some of the finer details escaped him, Solas still very vividly remembered the rest of it. A girl with a scarred face, and mumbled confessions left unfinished. He remembered drinking. Painting. Pleading. ( _Touching,_ which was…unfortunate.)

He remembered Lilith.

Still sick, still very slightly spinning, he made himself as presentable as possible (drank a frankly _inconceivable_ amount of water) and set out to do the one thing he’d meant to do since the beginning of this awful venture.

He went searching for Lilith.

She was dashing through the main hall, spilling rushed apologies to everyone she zoomed past, and Solas considered waiting for a more opportune time to speak to her. It was but a fleeting consideration. There would never be an opportune time. Nothing about his life was ever opportune. While she tried her best to politely maneuver between a chatting Orlesian couple, Solas tentatively approached. He cleared his throat.

“Inqu-” A deep pause. A new start. “Lilith?”

She looked up at him, amber eyes wide, and Solas wished, desperately, that he’d done this sooner. “Yes?”

He took her hands and pulled close; laid a soft kiss to her forehead. A deep pause. “Perhaps we should have that fight.”

“Yeah,” she sadly agreed. “We really should.” She cast an anxious flash of a glance over his shoulder. “But right this second I’m in the middle of a unicorn emergency, so not _now,_ but…later, definitely.”

That made about as much sense as anything else in her life. “By all means,” he offered. “A most pressing issue, I’m sure.”

She turned to leave, to dash off to some new disaster, but he had to say one last thing. Had to do something right, for once. Or at least try. “…I do love you,” he said. “Truly.”

The wry tic of her smile didn’t reach her eyes. “So you’ve told me.”

For once, Solas had to do something _right._

He kissed her. Soft. Deep. Pulled her near with a firm hand at the small of her back, the other tangling in her hair, _grasping._ The rigid hold of her shoulders melted when his tongue slipped between the seam of her lips.

He only pulled away when a passing Chantry sister coughed out a loud and purposeful _“Ahem!”_ His eyes darted to the floor, face hot with embarrassment as he quickly straightened. “Yes, well. That… Ah.”

“You’re such an idiot,” she said through a smile, and tossed her arms around his neck to pull herself into a happy, lingering kiss.

Solas only broke it to give a snickering laugh and ask, “Is that not your type?”

And yes. It most definitely was.

His eyes wandered, brow arched quizzically. “Is that Dorian’s coat?”

“Not anymore,” she said. “This is my coat.”

“Ah. Of course.”

She drew him close to whisper low, lips brushing his ear. “You promised.”

“…I’m sorry?” The jarring _slap_ of her hands at his backside echoed loud enough to startle a few passersby. Solas’ eyes shot wide, frozen, as she gripped tight and squeezed.

“It’s just…such a nice ass,” she fondly professed. “You promised I could.”

Ah. Yes. Indeed he had. “A genuine question: Was it a singular traumatic event, or a series of smaller repeating traumas that made you the way that you are?”

“Neither; born with it.” Her eyes glittered in sinister glee. “Hey, do you want to-”

“ _No_.” He knew what it was and _no_. “This is lasting inappropriately long, and you desperately need to stop.”

“You _never said_ how long it could be, only that I could in fact grab it.”

And to think, Solas deliberately chose this path for himself. Incredible.

The same nearby Chantry sister shot him a fretful glare, seeming particularly unhappy with the way Lilith’s hands slid lower and dug into the rounded muscle of his thigh. The best Solas could offer was an apologetic sort of shrug.

Lilith gave a decisive squeeze. “...so are you sure you don’t want to- ?”

“ _Seriously?_ ”

“What, I thought you liked it before?”

The overwhelming deluge of responses to that question merged together into a single long, exhausted groan. “…after your clan leaves.”

“It’s a _date_.” A shrill shriek from outside snapped her attention back. She gasped, hands finally releasing him. “Lady Fairmane!”

“…ah, _that_ unicorn.”

Lilith dashed off, Dorian’s coat waving behind her. Solas watched her disappear and sighed. The rapid tapping of someone’s shoe drew his attention to his left, to the Chantry sister waiting with crossed arms and an irate scowl.

“What did _I_ do?” he contested. “She’s _your_ Herald.”

The sister stormed off with a huff of disdain, fists balled at her side. Either to curse him or to pray for his soul. Solas hoped for the former.

An elf knocked gracelessly into his left shoulder in passing, then another at his right. A familiar boy with a wicked grin, and a girl with a rosy eyepatch.

“Aneth ara,” Marin greeted with a horrid little giggle, “ _lethallin_.”

The two rejoined together in front of him and exchanged a low high five.

“Welcome to the nightmare,” Riel cheerfully called back, “and thanks for the castle.”

The twins left, laughing, out the front door, and in that moment Solas decided with absolute certainty that of all the people he’d met over the course of this cursed reunion, they were both simultaneously the worst.

 

* * *

 

“ _Three days.”_ Dorian dropped the words and waited to watch them sink. “Three _days_. Can you believe this?”

Bull didn’t seem to pick up on his disbelief. They were strolling downstairs, Dorian having given up on trying to stay out of this awful horse business. According to Bull, he really did have to see it. “Uh…yeah?” Bull asked. “And?”

“And that’s _mad!_ How could you-”

“Dorian,” he interrupted. “You’ve shared a camp with them. You’ve been five feet away from them fucking more times than you could realistically count. Have you _seriously_ not noticed? It’s not like Lilith’s quiet.”

“But _three days?!”_

“Dorian,” he stressed. “ _Five. Feet.”_

He gave up on the argument, but still couldn’t shake the topic. “How can she still walk?”

“…oh come on, seriously?”

“How is the woman not _dead?”_

“I mean. She’s a warrior, so. I guess you could say she’s good at taking a pounding.”

_“Ugh, no, stop.”_

“You asked, not me.”

“ _Stop.”_

“Personally I don’t get how this is a surprise to you. You live with them. You’ve heard them. Right? I mean, you _had_ to have heard them. When Lilith gets going, she really… _goes_. Just _unf,_ bam, all in. Just really _goes_ for it.”

Dorian chose to ignore Bull’s dramatic (and unnecessary) pelvic thrust. “But _that often?”_ he wondered in simultaneous awe and revile. “Is the woman a _rabbit?_ ”

“Probably a bad choice of phrasing, but I get what you’re trying to say.”

“Do you think it’s an elf thing?”

“Nah.”

“How in the world-”

“It’s Lilith,” Bull explained. “And as far as Solas goes, well…it’s _Lilith._ Girl like that takes you to bed, you just nod and thank whatever god you’re into. Oh!” He smacked Dorian in the arm with far more force than was necessary. “Did you ever find out if it was butt stuff?”

“You cannot still be hung up on this.”

“Sera and I have a bet going, and I’m 80% sure I’m about to win. So it was, right?”

“I don’t know why I still bother speaking to you.”

“Because I’m fuckin’ hilarious,” he supplied. “Oh, _Solas!_ ” He gave a great, jarring slap to Dorian’s back that nearly sent him toppling, face split in an ecstatic grin. Across the hall, rubbing miserably at his temples, was their apostate in question.

“I’m gonna ask,” Bull said.

“Please,” Dorian begged. “Don’t.”

“Solas! _Hey!_ ”

His head snapped up, and Bull left Dorian behind to bound up with a cheerful wave. “Got a question for you,” he greeted. “So was it butt stuff?”

Dorian swiftly turned and pretended to be doing anything else. He heard the question drop heavy into silence, and then a response, stunned and sharp: “ _What?_ ”

“The thing,” Bull prompted. “From yesterday. It was butt stuff, wasn’t it?”

Solas only stared, aghast, and asked again: “ _What?_ ”

“Butt stuff,” he said again, as if Solas needed the clarification. “C’mon, I’ve got a bet going—it was, right?”

Solas didn’t respond that time, though. He’d already stormed off halfway through.

“Wait!” Bull called after him. “Just say yes or no! Solas! Was it butt stuff? _Solas!_ ”

Dorian spun back with a frantic wave, eyes going wide. “Oh, oh—ask him if he’s seen my coat!”

 

* * *

 

Lilith was going to kill whoever did it.

It took her all of five minutes to wrangle poor Lady Fairmane back into her stable, a genuine surprise to everyone, for some stupid reason. The way everyone backed up when she trotted her past them was both rude and _incredibly_ unnecessary. “She’s a _lady,_ ” Lilith stressed, giving her fair unicorn an affectionate pat on her withered snout. “You have to be _gentle_ with her.”

Blackwall stood at a carefully measured distance, close enough to appear supportive while still far enough to be safely out of reach. “Sure,” he said, unconvincingly. “A, ah…lady.”

Sera planted herself a solid six feet behind him, hands cupped around her mouth to shout, “It’s got a frigging _sword_ jammed through its frigging _head!”_

“She’s a unicorn,” Lilith brightly explained.

“That’s not what a unicorn is, you loony! It’s _frigging undead!_ ”

When Lilith leaned over the stable gate to plant a kiss on Lady’s forelock Blackwall very impressively suppressed a shudder. Sera gagged. Audibly. _Dramatically._

“She’s my beautiful oath-bound steed,” Lilith cooed, eyes aglow with the adoring love only a mother could have. “My sweet, fair Lady.” The skeletal beast gave an eerily raspy snort that rattled too long in its throat.

Blackwall forced a not-at-all subtle cough. “…not to detract from Lady’s, uh, _natural graces,_ but you do know we have other horses, don’t you? Maybe ones someone _other_ than you can touch?”

“I hate horses,” Lilith briskly informed. “No thanks.”

The steadily rising volume of Sera’s groan echoed all the way through the market. “What the _shite_ does that even _mean?_ ”

“I don’t trust horses,” she went on, presently fussing with Lady’s mane like a nitpicky stylist. “They’re shifty. Got those stupid sideways-pupils.” Satisfied, she clasped her hands together at her cheek and released a proud and trailing sigh. “But not my Lady.”

“…even though she’s a horse,” Blackwall said.

“Not a horse,” Lilith corrected. “A unicorn.”

“Right. My mistake.”

She fondly stroked Lady’s scraggly mane, ignoring the exaggerated retching noises Sera was trying to ruin her mood with. “You’re just misunderstood,” she sweetly murmured, “aren’t you, princess?”

A toneless expulsion of air from its snout made a sound like a dry gurgle. Lilith grinned, delighted. Sera mimed a barfing gesture behind her.

“Frigging _nasty_ , that thing. How do you even know it’s a she?”

The answer to that came from Dennet—a coarse, weary shout from the loft above them: “It’s a she,” he gruffly affirmed. “And I don’t want to talk about it.”

Nose scrunched in disgust, Sera only reiterated, “ _Nasty_.”

Cowards, the whole lot of ‘em.

 

* * *

 

Solas thought to offer his assistance in corralling Lilith’s escaped horse, but in the end decided against it. Firstly, he was positive Lilith in no way needed help, from him or anyone. Secondly, it was a strange and unsettling creature. Solas didn’t hate it—was rather fascinated by it, in fact—but he would also rather not touch it. The croaking death rattle that accompanied each phantom breath didn’t exactly make the thing any more appealing.

Sorry, _her_.

She was a lady, after all.

He found Lilith outside the barn in the late afternoon, resting cross-legged in the grass with her back against the well. Sat in a loose semi-circle around her were-

Oh, _seriously?_

When Solas approached the trio of elves he was careful to smother any errant embers of a glare. “Inquisitor,” he greeted. He tried to maintain a civil tilt of lips that could at least _pass_ as a smile as his eyes quickly skimmed the twins at her side. “Friends of yours, I take it?”

“Actually yeah, kind of.”

“Kind of,” the boy snorted. _Riel_. “Right, lots of love for you too, Lilith.” He looked happily to Solas, smile bright, and breezily said, “She fucked my sister. Best thing that ever happened to me—that’s how I get to introduce her now. I call her Ol’ Sisterfucker.”

“We’re old friends,” Lilith translated.

Solas stared, fingers clawed so deep into civility that the polite mask of his smile never wavered. “Yes. We have met.”

“Sorry about poisoning you,” Marin said, sounding not an ounce sorry. “You really should be more careful with that.”

“Hey,” Lilith leapt to defend, “at least he didn’t throw up. Honestly, that’s an accomplishment.” She flashed him a sweet smile. “Proud of you, Charmer.”

He had, indeed, thrown up. Almost instantly upon waking that morning. And then twice thereafter. “Thank you,” he dryly cracked. “You are too kind.”

Riel drew his attention with a nod and a wicked smile. “So how’s Dorian?”

Before Solas could answer Lilith lunged forward to smack him hard in the leg. “ _You leave him alone_ ,” she scolded. “ _He’s a nice boy_.”

“He is,” Riel agreed, quickly scrambling out of her reach. “And I-”

“ _I know what you did_ ,” she interrupted, “and I hate it.”

“ _He_ didn’t hate it.”

This time it’s Marin who smacks him.

“Sorry,” she apologized to Solas. “He’s-”

“An idiot,” Solas finished. “Yes. I’m aware.”

“Yes,” Riel granted, “but an idiot who fucked a _magister._ ”

Lilith pounced, raining blows on any part of him she could reach. “He’s not a magister!” she ground through clenched teeth, hands flying. “He’s my best friend and I _hate you_.”

Riel dodged a fist to his face only to suffer a firm punch to the ribs. “ _Worth it_ ,” he wheezed.

While the two tussled—Lilith trying to physically punch his skeleton into dust and Riel very passively covering his head and allowing her to—Marin’s stare cut back to Solas. “No hard feelings, Solas, friend among other things to Lilith—I had to do it. Turned out alright, though. Took it like a champ, you did.”

For the briefest of moments, Solas considered the possibility of ripping off her eyepatch and hurling it into the well. “I am glad to have been of service,” he thinly retorted. “It is always _so_ good to meet a friend of Lilith’s.”

She gave a polite little laugh, and stood to offer him a cordial handshake. “You’ve done good, lethallin. You have my approval.” When Solas tentatively reached for her hand she grasped him by the arm and jerked him in close to whisper in his ear, “If you hurt her, I will find you, and I will burn you.” Her nails dug painfully into his shoulder, voice a seething hiss. “ _Burn._ ” When she released him it was with a jovial smile that convinced no one. “So glad we could meet, Solas. It’s been a right pleasure.”

“…yes. Er. A pleasure.” He forcibly cleared his throat, eyes darting back to Lilith. “Would it be possible to speak privately?”

Lilith gave one last solid punch to Riel’s arm, earning a yelp and a trailing whine, before turning her attention back to Solas. “Yes,” she said. “Let’s.”

Solas was glad when they left the twins shrinking in the distance, Marin’s eye still burning into his back all the way. They were nearly to the stairs leading to the upper yard when Riel’s voice echoed across the market, a booming shout: “See you later, ol’ sisterfucker!”

Solas wished he’d thrown him down the well.

There were few places left in Skyhold quiet enough for private conversation. Eventually Solas followed her, head bowed, into the small chapel off the courtyard. The soft _thud_ of the door sealing closed struck him as far too ominous.

“So,” Lilith said. “I guess it’s time for that fight.”

“Perhaps,” he cautiously ventured. “…or I could simply talk, and we could not fight at all.”

Lilith looked none too pleased with that option. “A very nice idea, but I’ve got some words to say, too, and they will most _definitely_ be fighting words.”

“And I deserve them, entirely. But if I could…speak first. I would appreciate the opportunity.”

She crossed her arms, lips drawn into a tight, impatient line. “Fine. Go ahead.”

“…I am sorry. Truly.” He went to reach for her but stalled, uncertain. Reached again. Stalled. Finally he took the risk and carefully laid his hand against her cheek. Her perfect scarred face, with angles too sharp and complexion too uneven. “You mean…so much to me. More than I could express in words. And I… I have not handled this reunion well. The fault is solely mine. I’m sorry I behaved so poorly—it had nothing to do with you, and I regret allowing you to believe it did.” His tone fell hushed, gaze sorrowful, deep. Something mournful bubbled up through a subtle crack in his voice. “You are perfect,” he vowed. “To me you will always be perfect.”

It took a long, terrible moment before Lilith laid her hand over his and leaned into his touch, eyes slipped shut. “…you’ve been a real asshole, you know that?”

“I know.”

“This is still a half-assed apology.”

“I know,” he said again. “And for that I apologize, as well. However, I believe I could make it at least partially better—but I will need a door that locks.”

Lilith laughed, and the sound soothed his soul.

“You sure you’re not still drunk?” she cracked.

“Relatively certain, yes.”

Her smile lit his heart up like a flash fire. “There’s the charmer I know.”

Solas took her hands in his and laid a soft kiss to her forehead. “Would you like to find that door now, then, or later?”

“Oh, now, definitely. Like, _now_. We needed to find a door yesterday.”

He kissed her, soft and sweet, and couldn’t keep the low, smug rumble of laughter out of his voice when he leaned down close and whispered, “ _Lasa em tua rosas’da’din_.”

“Oh,” she said, “you damn well better.”

 

* * *

 

Dorian was a good and true friend. Really, he was. But _fasta vass_ , it was _cold,_ and that feverish little goblin of a woman had absolutely _no need_ for his best coat. A helpful Chantry sister directed him to the guest wing, where an equally helpful laundress directed him to Solas’ seldom-used bedchambers—a place that Dorian wasn’t actually sure existed. (He’d always assumed the man slept under his desk, or something. Perhaps outside under a nice tree. Elves did that, yes?)

A polite rap of knuckles against the heavy door triggered the muffled sound of a giggle that he instantly recognized. When the door finally opened it was only wide enough to reveal Lilith’s head and the tops of bare shoulders. “Can I help you?”

“Yes, do you still have my- ?” It was at that moment that Dorian looked past her, to a certain half-dressed elven apostate wiping surreptitiously at his mouth.

Of bloody course.

“Never mind,” he grumbled. “Keep it.”

The delighted glow of Lilith’s smile, while wonderful to see again, only made this particular situation worse. “A real cunning linguist,” she said again. This time Dorian reached to slam the door shut himself. Before he left he spun back to give the wood a decisive kick.

“ _He doesn’t deserve reciprocation of any sort,”_ he warned. “And he _knows_ it!”

 

* * *

 

Lilith did, indeed, offer to reciprocate. Solas did not take her up on that, however. (Wanted to—oh, _ardently_ wanted to—but that was not the point of this.) She whistled some lilting tune while she redressed, seeming much more cheerful than she’d been about forty minutes prior.

“We’ve still got time, you know,” she brightly reminded. “You sure you don’t want to?”

“A generous offer, but no, thank you. As I recall you have a previous engagement to attend.”

“It’s a lunch date,” she corrected, “and I’m sure Deshanna would understand.”

“She would _not._ ”

She rolled her eyes with a derisive _tsk_ , wiggling back into the undergarments Josephine had _insisted_ she wear while there were still children present. “You know, the invitation is still open, if you want to join us.”

Solas could not think of anything he would hate doing more. “Thank you,” he said. “But I am sure she would rather spend time with you alone.”

“You can’t avoid her forever.”

Oh yes he very well could.

“Another time,” he lied, and could tell by the look on Lilith’s face that she didn’t believe it for a second.

Before she left she leaned in close to kiss him, cheeks still hopelessly flushed. Solas hoped in a flash of mad terror that it was not obvious what she’d been doing. “I’ll tell her you said hi,” she promised. “And that you’d just _love_ to talk to her later.”

_No. Never._

It was a joke, of course. Solas was sure of that. But even after she sauntered out the door with a wave and a wink, he couldn’t disappear the lingering terror of such an awful promise. For once he was not too proud to admit it: he spent the rest of the afternoon hiding.

A skill he was becoming quite proficient at, as it were.

Skyhold’s small courtyard garden wasn’t the most private of places—even without the addition of Dalish elves, there were always gatherings of Chantry sisters and residents seeking respite in the shade. Hidden in a shadowed alcove, safely tucked away from the crowd, Solas was able to sit back and keep dutiful watch for a certain greying mage in Keeper robes.

 _A joke,_ he assured himself. It was only a joke.

A piercing shout of “Cat man!” pulled his attention downward, to the Dalish child scrambling to wave him down. She came to a teetering halt before him, eyes alight. “Hey! Hey! _Cat man!”_

“Lyna,” he remembered. Yes. The young mage. “My name is _Solas,_ ” he gently corrected, “and it is not my cat.”

She happily ignored him. “Look what I can do!” Red-faced determination broke into an elated grin when she conjured a perfect cyclone of ice in her cupped hands. She looked up at him expectantly, bouncing on the balls of her bare feet.

“Wonderful,” he praised. And…meant it, actually. Quite genuinely. “Have you shown your Keeper?”

The gleeful fervor of her nod sent dark curls tumbling into her eyes. “I’m gonna learn how to do it with _fire!”_

“…or perhaps something else.”

She grinned, still bouncing. “Fire!” The echo of children shouting snagged her attention elsewhere, hands dropping to her sides. “Hey!” she yelled. “Hey, wait for me!” She raced away with a screech of laughter, and paused just briefly to wave behind her. “Bye, cat man!”

“ _Solas,”_ he corrected. “And it is not my-”

Oh, never mind.

“She’s been showing everyone, you know,” an amused voice cut in. The girl’s mother, he recognized. He realized with chagrin that he’d never caught her name.

“Nirasha,” she thankfully introduced. “And you’re Solas, then? I’ve heard a great deal about you.”

A deeply ominous statement. “Have you now?”

“Good things,” she assured. Her smile brightened. “I hear you’re a dreamer mage. Extraordinary. We meet so few anymore. A rare talent, that is.”

“Yes,” he sadly agreed. “Rare indeed.”

“Of course Lilith seems to have no trouble finding them, doesn’t she? Oh, who was the last one she ran off with—a shifty one, that boy. Fala…Felo…something. Well, highly suspect, regardless. No clan I know has ever heard of him. The only other dreamer I ever met, though. Truly, extraordinary.”

Solas felt his heart drop.

No.

No, of course not. “When was this?” he asked.

“I dunno, few years ago. Not the worst company she’s ever brought ‘round, though. Creators, once she came traipsing back with this awful girl…”

But Solas had already stopped listening.

He was not suspicious of her. Of course he was not suspicious. It was...curiosity, that was all. Nothing more.

_Curious, only curious._

He felt distrust prickle in the dark parts of his mind, doubt and panic slowly growing, spreading. He was not suspicious, he vowed to himself. He vowed it even as he numbly excused himself and left with a too-quick stride to find the collection of stolen reports he’d left in the rotunda. _Curious, only curious…_ Perhaps a keener study of them would ease his mind; reveal something…something…

_Questionable. Incriminating. Damning._

Something _comforting,_ he corrected. Yes. Just…a simple reassurance. Of course it wasn’t- _Obviously_ she hadn’t-

_Curious, curious, only curious…_

He was out of breath by the time he made it to the rotunda. Out of the corner of his eye he caught the glint of armor, the swish of a deep red skirt, as someone hurried to disappear out the door to the ramparts. It took only moments for him to realize the papers atop his desk were missing.

No. No, no-

He tried to keep a safe distance as he followed the thief outside, careful not to draw their attention. When he paused in the darkened doorway to peer into the daylight he saw a soldier—a Templar, Lysette—silently slip through Cullen’s door. Solas followed, silent.

Lysette must not have noticed him tracking her. She quickened her step as she exited Cullen’s office and hurried over the ramparts with his papers under her arm, until she finally stopped before a familiar Dalish elf—a boy, Loranil, the elf recruited from the Exalted Plains—and with a hushed murmur too low for Solas to catch handed the papers off to him. Loranil nodded, and scurried off without further instruction.

Silently, suspiciously, Solas followed.

His investigation ended in the tavern. Loranil descended the stairs to the lower floor, in too much of a hurry to glance over his shoulder, and finally came to a stop at the bar. Solas risked a peek downstairs and saw-

Lilith. Solas ducked farther down when he saw Deshanna at her side, a reflex he couldn’t curb. He saw Loranil’s lips move, rushed, urgent; saw Lilith give a brisk nod and a reassuring clap to his shoulder as she took the papers from his hands, neatly folded them into a square, and slipped them into her pocket. She downed the rest of whatever was in her glass, dropped a handful of coins on the counter, and after giving Deshanna a quick kiss on the cheek swiftly disappeared out the door.

By the time Solas caught up to her in the great hall she was already feeding the papers into the fireplace. He watched them burn and suddenly felt the nagging whisper of distrust grow into a booming shout. He considered confronting her. Questioning her.

Instead he slipped away without a word to find Cullen.

The Commander was conversing with a scout near the fortress gates when he approached. “Cullen?” He tried hard to keep his tone light, free of any dark notes of dread. “Do you have a moment?”

“Of course,” Cullen said. He dismissed the scout and turned to give his full attention. “What can I do for you, Solas?”

Perhaps it was simply nerves, but Solas couldn’t shake the creeping feeling that he was being watched. He tried to speak low without sounding outwardly suspicious. “The Dalish recruit from the Plains, Loranil—he is one of yours, is he not?”

“He is…” Caution turned his features pinched, wary. “What of him? Has he done something?”

“No, no—I was only curious.” _Curious, only curious._ “Does he speak often to the Inquisitor, or are most messages sent through you?”

“Through me, I suppose…although I can’t imagine what he would need to speak to the Inquisitor for. Why do you ask?” Before Solas could conjure up some harmless explanation, Cullen’s eyes went just barely wider, voice falling hushed. “Is he one of hers?”

Solas blinked. “One of her what?”

“Her…agents, or whatever they are. Her…spy-people.”

“Her _agents?_ ” The careful narrowing of his eyes betrayed a sharper sort of suspicion. “Do you mean the Inquisition’s?”

“No, the- ah, ignore me. Leliana’s made me paranoid.” He huffed out an uneasy breath of laughter, and Solas once agent felt the burn of watchful eyes at his back.

“Yes,” he blandly echoed back, “paranoid.”

“…it’s not because he’s an elf, you know. Er. What I mean to say is… That isn’t why- Oh, Maker, forget I said anything. I should just keep my damned mouth shut at this point.”

Solas gave a mechanical nod, thoughts already drifted elsewhere. Somewhere dark, and heavy.

Agents, was it?

He tried Leliana, later. Thought— _hoped_ —that gleaning information from her would be as simple as it’d been with Cullen. He should have known better. When he approached her alone up in the rookery and asked with smooth assurance, “Is Loranil one of Lilith’s?” she answered without pause or falter, “Lilith’s what?”

“Her…well…” He trailed off, hoping she’d finish for him.

She didn’t.

“Her what?” The clueless air to her tone was calculated, manufactured. She knew quite well _what._ “I do not believe they are relatives, if that is what you’re asking.”

Yes. Solas should have known better. There would be no victory for him in this battle. “That is precisely what I was asking,” he tactically surrendered. “Thank you.”

As he descended the stairs he felt the burn of watchful eyes at his back all the while.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [The Acquisition of Lady Fairmane](http://archiveofourown.org/works/7364620)
> 
>  
> 
> I say again: Lilith u nasty ho


End file.
